JANINA 

From  the  drawing  by  W.   T.   Benda 


THE   COMEDIENNE, 


BY 


WLADYSLAW  8.  REYMONT 

• » 


TRANSLATED   FROM  THE   POLISH 
BY 

EDMUND  OBECNY 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

FREDERICK  DORR  STEELE 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

TTbe  IKnicfeerbocfeer  press 
1920 


lESERVATfON 


UGINAL  TO  BE 
•TA1NED 

EB  2  5  1994 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Pfr 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

THE  provincial  actors  of  Poland  are  some- 
times colloquially  called  " comedians,"  as 
distinguished  from  their  more  pretentious 
brethren  of  the  metropolitan  stage  in  Warsaw. 
The  word,  however,  does  not  characterize  a 
player  of  comedy  parts.  Indeed,  the  provin- 
cials, usually  performing  in  open  air  theatres, 
play  every  conceivable  r61e,  and  as  in  the  case 
of  Janina,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  the  life 
of  the  Comedienne  often  embraces  far  more 
tragedy  than  comedy. 

Wladyslaw  Reymont  is  the  most  widely 
known  of  living  Polish  writers.  The  Academy 
of  Science  of  Cracow  nominated  him  for 
the  Nobel  Prize  for  Literature.  He  is  the 
author  of  numerous  novels  dealing  with  var- 
ious phases  of  everyday  life  in  Poland,  many 
of  them  translated  into  French,  German,  and 
Swedish.  The  Comedienne  is  the  first  of  his 
works  to  appear  in  English. 


iv  Publishers'  Note 

Reymont  himself  was  a  peasant,  rising  from 
the  bottom  until  to-day  the  light  of  his  recog- 
nized genius  shines  in  the  very  forefront  of 
the  Slavic  intellectuals. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  for  several 
years  the  author  was  himself  a  "Comedian," 
traveling  about  what  was  then  Russian 
Poland  with  a  company  of  provincial  players. 


THE    COMEDIENNE 


The  Comedienne 


CHAPTER  I 

BUKOWIEC,  a  station  on  the  Dombrowa 
railroad,  lies  in  a  beautiful  spot.  A  winding 
line  was  cut  among  the  beech  and  pine  cov- 
ered hills,  and  at  the  most  level  point,  between 
a  mighty  hill  towering  above  the  woods  with 
its  bald  and  rocky  summit,  and  a  long  narrow 
valley,  glistening  with  pools  and  marshes,  was 
placed  the  station.  This  two-story  building 
of  rough  brick  containing  the  quarters  of 
the  station-master  and  his  assistant,  a  small 
wooden  house  at  the  side  for  the  telegrapher 
and  the  minor  employees,  another  similar 
one  near  the  last  switches  for  the  watchman, 
three  switch-houses  at  various  points,  and  a 
freight-house  were  the  only  signs  of  human 
habitation. 

Surrounding  the  station  on  all  sides  were  the 


Comedienne 


murmuring  woods,  while  above,  a  strip  of  blue 
sky,  slashed  with  gray  clouds,  extended  like  a 
wide-spreading  roof. 

The  sun  was  veering  toward  the  south  and 
glowing  ever  brighter  and  warmer;  the  reddish 
slopes  of  the  rocky  hill,  with  its  ragged  summit 
gashed  by  spring  freshets,  were  bathed  in  a 
flood  of  golden  sunlight. 

The  calm  of  a  spring  afternoon  diffused 
itself  over  all.  The  trees  stood  motionless 
without  a  murmur  in  their  boughs.  The 
sharp  emerald  leaves  of  the  beeches  drooped 
drowsily,  as  though  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  light, 
the  warmth,  and  the  silence.  The  twitter  of 
birds  sounded  at  rare  intervals  from  the  thick- 
ets, and  only  the  cry  of  the  water-fowls  on  the 
marshes  and  the  somnolent  hum  of  insects 
filled  the  air.  Above  the  blue  line  of  rails 
stretching  in  an  endless  chain  of  curves  and 
zigzags,  the  warm  air  glowed  with  shifting 
hues  of  violet  light. 

Out  of  the  office  of  the  station-master  came 
a  short,  squarely-built  man  with  light,  almost 
flaxen  hair.  He  was  dressed,  or  rather 
squeezed  into  a  stylish  surtout  and  held  his 
hat  in  his  hand  while  a  workman  helped  him 
on  with  his  overcoat. 


The  Comedienne  3 

The  station-master  stood  before  him,  strok- 
ing his  grayish  beard  with  an  automatic  ges- 
ture and  smiling  in  a  friendly  manner.  He 
also  was  stocky,  strongly-knit,  and  broad 
shouldered,  and  in  his  blue  eyes,  flashing  jovi- 
ally from  beneath  heavy  eyebrows  and  a 
square  forehead,  there  also  gleamed  deter- 
mination and  an  unbending  will.  His  straight 
nose,  full  lips,  a  certain  contraction  of  the 
brows,  and  the  sharp  direct  glance  of  his  eyes, 
that  seemed  like  a  dagger-stroke — all  these 
typified  a  violent  nature. 

"  Good-bye,  until  to-morrow!"  .  .  .said  the 
blonde  man  merrily,  extending  his  big  hand  in 
farewell. 

" Good-bye!  ...  Oh  come,  let  me  hug 
you.  To-morrow  we'll  celebrate  the  big  event 
with  a  good  drink." 

"I  am  a  little  afraid  of  that  to-morrow." 

"Courage,  my  boy!  Don't  fear,  I  give  you 
my  word  that  everything  will  turn  out  all  right. 
Ill  tell  Jenka  all  about  it  immediately.  You 
will  come  to  us  to-morrow  for  dinner,  propose 
to  her,  be  accepted  by  her,  in  a  month  you  will 
be  married  and  we  shall  be  neighbors  .  .  . 
hey!  I  like  you  immensely,  Mr.  Andrew!  I 
always  dreamed  of  having  such  a  son.  Unfor- 


4  The  Comedienne 

tunately  I  haven't  any,  but  at  least  I'll  have  a 
son-in-law." 

They  kissed  each  other  heartily;  the  younger 
jumped  into  a  light  mountain  rig  waiting  near 
the  platform  and  drove  away  at  a  swift  pace 
along  a  narrow  road  leading  through  the 
wood.  He  glanced  back,  tipped  his  hat,  sent 
a  deeper  bow  to  the  windows  of  the  second 
story,  and  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees.  After  riding  a  little  way,  he  sprang 
from  the  carriage,  ordered  the  driver  to  go  on, 
and  continued  his  journey  on  foot  by  a  short 
cut. 

The  station-master,  as  soon  as  his  guest 
had  vanished  from  sight,  reentered  his  office 
and  busied  himself  with  his  official  correspon- 
dence. He  was  highly  satisfied  that  Grze- 
sikiewicz  had  asked  him  for  his  daughter's 
hand  and  he  had  promised  her  to  him  in  the 
certainty  that  she  would  agree. 

Grzesikiewicz,  although  not  handsome,  was 
sensible  and  very  rich.  The  woods  among 
which  stood  the  station  and  a  few  neighboring 
farmhouses  were  the  property  of  his  father. 
The  elder  Grzesikiewicz  was  primarily  a  peas- 
ant, who  had  transformed  himself  from  an 
innkeeper  into  a  trader  and  had  made  a 


The  Comedienne  5 

fabulous  fortune  by  the  sale  of  timber  and 
cattle-fodder. 

Many  people  in  the  neighborhood  still  re- 
membered that  the  old  man  used  to  be  called 
Grzesik  in  his  youth.  They  often  ridiculed 
him  for  it,  but  no  one  upbraided  him  for  chang- 
ing his  name,  for  he  did  not  pose  as  an  aristo- 
crat, nor  did  he  assume  an  overbearing  air 
toward  others  because  of  his  wealth. 

He  was  a  peasant,  and  in  spite  of  all  changes 
remained  a  peasant  to  the  very  core.  His 
son  received  a  thorough  education  and  now 
helped  his  father.  Two  years  ago  he  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  station-master's 
daughter  after  her  return  from  the  academy  at 
Kielce  and  had  fallen  violently  in  love  with 
her.  His  father  offered  no  opposition,  but 
told  him  plainly  to  go  ahead  and  marry  if  he 
wanted. 

Andrew  met  the  girl  quite  often,  became 
ever  more  deeply  enamored  of  her,  but  never 
dared  to  speak  to  her  of  his  love.  She  liked 
him,  but  at  the  same  time  her  attitude  was  so 
frank  and  straightforward  that  his  intended 
words  of  endearment  and  confessions  of  love 
always  froze  upon  his  lips  before  he  had  half 
uttered  them.  He  felt  that  she  belonged  to  a 


6  The  Comedienne 

higher  breed  of  women,  inaccessible  to  such  a 
"  churl"  as  he  often  frankly  called  himself;  but 
precisely  because  of  his  lowly  origin  he  loved 
her  all  the  more  intensely. 

Finally,  he  decided  to  speak  to  her  father 
about  it. 

Orlowski  received  him  with  open  arms,  and 
in  his  arbitrary  way,  without  consulting  his 
daughter,  at  once  gave  him  his  word  that  all 
would  be  well.  Grzesikiewicz  was  therefore 
thinking  that  Janina  would  not  refuse  him, 
that  she  must  have  already  spoken  of  the  mat- 
ter with  her  father. 

"Why  not!"  he  whispered  to  himself.  He 
was  young,  wealthy,  and — well,  he  loved  her  so 
dearly.  "In  a  month  our  marriage  will  take 
place,"  he  added  hurriedly  and  that  thought 
filled  him  with  such  joy  that  he  began  to  run 
swiftly  through  the  woods,  breaking  branches 
off  the  trees,  kicking  the  rotted  stumps  that 
were  in  his  way,  knocking  off  the  heads  of 
spring  mushrooms,  whistling  and  smiling. 
And  he  thought,  too,  how  glad  his  mother 
would  be  to  hear  the  news. 

She  was  an  old  peasant  woman,  who  with 
the  exception  of  her  dress  had  not  changed 
in  the  least  on  account  of  her  wealth.  She 


The  Comedienne  7 

thought  of  Janina  as  of  a  princess.  Her  one 
dream  was  to  have  for  a  daughter-in-law  a  real 
lady,  an  aristocrat  whose  beauty  and  high 
birth  would  dazzle  her,  for  her  husband  and 
his  money  and  the  respect  which  the  entire 
neighborhood  showed  him  did  not  suffice  her. 
She  was  always  conscious  of  being  a  peasant 
and  received  all  honors  with  a  true  peasant- 
like  distrust. 

' '  Andy ! ' '  she  often  said  to  her  son.  ' '  Andy, 
I  wish  you  would  marry  Miss  Orlowska. 
That's  what  I  call  a  real  lady!  When  -she 
looks  at  you,  she  makes  you  shudder  with  awe 
and  wish  to  fall  at  her  feet  and  beg  some  boon 
of  her.  .  .  .  She  must  be  very  good  for 
whenever  she  meets  folks  in  the  woods  she 
greets  them  in  God's  name,  chats  with  them, 
and  pets  the  children  .  .  .  another  would  be 
incapable  of  that!  Gentle  birth  will  always 
out.  I  sent  her  a  basket  of  mushrooms  and 
when  she  met  me  she  kissed  my  hand  for  it. 
And  she  is  not  lacking  in  wisdom.  Ho!  ho! 
she  knows  that  I  have  a  prize  of  a  son.  Andy, 
marry  her.  Hurry,  and  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shines!" 

Andrew  would  usually  laugh  at  his  mother's 
prattle,  kiss  her  hand,  and  promise  her  to 


8  The  Comedienne 

settle  at  once  everything  according  to  her 
wishes. 

"We  will  have  a  princess  in  our  house  and 
seat  her  in  state  in  the  parlor!  Don't  fear, 
Andy,  I  will  not  let  her  soil  her  hands  with 
anything.  I  will  wait  upon  her,  serve  her, 
hand  her  everything  she  needs;  all  she  has  to 
do  is  to  read  French  books  and  play  on  the 
piano,  for  that  is  what  a  lady  is  for!"  his 
mother  would  add. 

And  he  was  just  as  much  of  a  peasant  as 
she  deep  within  himself;  beneath  the  smooth 
veneer  of  the  civilized  and  educated  man 
seethed  a  primitive  unbridled  energy  and  the 
desire  for  a  wife — a  woman  to  rule  him.  This 
young  Hercules,  who,  when  he  felt  like  it, 
could  fling  unaided  into  the  wagon  two-hun- 
dred pound  sacks  of  wheat,  and  who  often  had 
to  toil  like  a  common  laborer  to  quell  with 
weariness  the  riotous  tides  that  often  rose  in 
his  healthy  blood,  unexhausted  through  doz- 
ens of  generations — dreamed  of  Janina  and 
was  vanquished  by  her  beauty  and  sweetness. 

He  now  rushed  along  through  the  woods 
like  a  whirlwind  and  then  flew  across  the 
fields,  all  green  with  the  first  vigorous  shoots  of 
the  spring  wheat,  to  tell  his  mother  of  the 


The  Comedienne  9 

happiness  awaiting  him.  He  knew  that  he 
would  find  her  in  her  favorite  room  whose 
walls  were  adorned  with  three  rows  of  holy 
pictures  in  gilt  frames — for  that  was  the  only 
luxury  that  she  allowed  herself. 

The  station-master,  in  the  meanwhile,  fin- 
ished writing  his  official  report,  signed  it,  made 
an  entry  in  his  journal,  placed  it  in  an  envelope, 
addressed  it  to  "the  Expeditor  of  the  Station 
of  Bukowiec,"  and  called:  " Anthony!" 

A  servant  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Take  this  to  the  dispatcher!"  ordered 
Orlowski. 

The  servant  took  the  letter  without  a  word 
and  with  the  solemnest  mien  in  the  world  laid 
it  upon  a  table  on  the  other  side  of  the  window. 
The  station-master  arose,  stretched  himself, 
took  off  his  red  cap,  and  walked  over  to  that 
table;  then  he  put  on  an  ordinary  cap  with  a 
red  border  and  with  the  greatest  gravity 
opened  the  letter  that  he  had  written  a  mo- 
ment ago.  He  read  it,  wrote  on  the  other  side 
a  few  lines  in  reply,  again  signing  his  name, 
and  then  addressed  it  to  the  "Local  Station- 
Master"  and  had  Anthony  deliver  it  to  himself. 

All  the  officials  of  the  railway  knew  his 
mania  and  made  merry  at  his  expense.  There 


io  The  Comedienne 

was  no  expediter  in  Bukowiec,  hence  he  per- 
formed both  functions, — that  of  station-master 
and  dispatcher — but  at  two  different  tables. 

As  the  station-master  he  was  his  own  supe- 
rior, so  he  often  had  moments  of  truly  insane 
joy  when,  noticing  some  error  in  his  accounts, 
or  some  omission  in  his  duty  as  a  dispatcher, 
he  would  indite  a  complaint  against  himself. 

Everybody  made  fun  of  him,  but  he  paid  no 
attention  and  persisted  in  following  his  own 
way,  saying  in  justification:  "Order  and  sys- 
tem are  the  foundations  of  everything ;  if  they 
are  lacking,  all  else  fails!" 

Having  finished  his  tasks,  he  locked  all  the 
drawers  of  his  desk,  glanced  out  on  the  plat- 
form, and  went  to  his  home.  He  entered  not 
by  way  of  the  anteroom,  but  through  the 
kitchen,  for  he  had  to  know  all  that  was  go- 
ing on.  He  peeped  into  the  stove,  gave  the 
fire  a  jab  with  the  poker,  scolded  the  servant- 
girl  because  of  some  water  spilled  on  the  floor, 
and  then  proceeded  to  the  dining-room. 

"  Where  is  Jenka?"  he  asked. 

"Miss  Janina  will  be  here  in  a  minute," 
answered  Mrs.  Krenska,  a  sort  of  housekeeper 
and  duenna  in  one  person,  a  pretty  blonde 
with  expressive  features. 


The  Comedienne  " 

"What  are  you  preparing  for  dinner?" 

"The  Director's  favorite  dish;  chicken 
fricassee,  sorrel  soup,  and  cutlets " 

" Extravagance!  By  God,  what  extrava- 
gance !  Soup  and  one  kind  of  meat  is  enough 
even  for  a  king !  You  will  ruin  me ! ' ' 

"But  Mr.  Director  ...  I  ordered  this 
meal  prepared  especially  for  you,  sir -" 

"Bosh!  You  women  have  nothing  in  your 
heads  but  fricassees,  sweets,  and  dainties. 
All  that  is  bosh!" 

"You  judge  us  unfairly,  sir;  we  generally 
economize  more  than  men  do." 

"Aha!  You  economize  so  that  you  can 
later  buy  yourselves  more  fineries  ...  I 
know,  you  needn't  tell  me." 

Mrs.  Krenska  did  not  answer,  but  began  to 
set  the  table  for  dinner. 

Just  then,  Janina  entered.  She  was  a  girl 
of  about  twenty-two,  tall,  well-formed,  and 
broad-shouldered.  Her  features  were  not 
very  regular;  she  had  black  eyes,  a  straight 
forehead,  a  trifle  too  broad,  dark  eyebrows 
strongly  accented,  a  Roman  nose,  and  full 
glowing  lips.  Her  eyes  had  a  deep  expression 
indicating  an  introspective  nature;  her  lips 
were  tightly  drawn  together  in  what  seemed  to 


12  The  Comedienne 

be  a  semblance  of  dignity  or  hidden  temper. 
Two  deep  lines  clouded  her  clear  forehead. 
Gorgeous,  wavy  blonde  hair,  with  a  reddish 
tinge,  crowned  her  small  round  head.  Her 
amber-gold  complexion  had  the  mellowness  of 
a  ripe  peach.  There  was  something  strange 
about  her  voice :  an  alto  that  at  times  dropped 
into  a  deep  baritone  of  almost  masculine 
accents. 

She  bowed  her  head  to  her  father  and  seated 
herself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

" Grzesikiewicz  was  here  to  see  me  to-day," 
said  Orlowski  slowly  serving  the  soup,  for  he 
always  presided  over  the  meals. 

Janina  glanced  at  him  calmly. 

"He  asked  me  for  your  hand,  Jenka." 

"What  did  you  tell  him,  Mr.  Director?" 
quickly  interposed  Mrs.  Krenska. 

"That  is  our  affair,"  he  answered  sternly. 
"Our  affair  ...  I  told  him  all  would  be  well," 
he  said,  turning  to  Janina.  "He  will  be  here 
to-morrow  for  dinner  and  you  can  talk  it  over 
between  yourselves." 

"What's  the  use,  father!  Since  you  have 
told  him  that  all  would  be  well,  you  can 
receive  him  yourself  to-morrow  and  tell  him 
from  me  that  everything  is  far  from  well.  .  .  . 


The  Comedienne  13 

I  do  not  wish  to  speak  with  him.  To-morrow 
I  will  go  toKielce!" 

"Bosh!  If  you  were  not  a  crazy  fool,  you 
would  understand  what  an  excellent  husband 
he  would  make  for  you!  Even  though 
Grzesikiewicz  is  a  peasant  he's  worth  more  to 
you  than  a  prince,  for  he  wants  you  .  .  .  and 
he  wants  you  because  he's  a  fool.  He  could 
afford  to  take  his  pick  of  the  best.  .  .  .  You 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  choosing 
you.  He  will  propose  to  you  to-morrow  and 
in  a  month  from  now  you  will  be  Mrs. 
Grzesikiewicz." 

"1  will  not  be  his  wife!  If  he  can  get 
another,  let  him  do  so " 

"I  swear  to  God  that  you  will  be  Mrs. 
Grzesikiewicz!" 

"No!  I  will  not  have  him  or  anyone  else! 
I  will  not  marry!" 

"Fool!"  he  retorted  brutally.  "You  will 
marry  because  you  need  a  roof  over  your 
head,  food  and  dress,  and  someone  to  look 
after  you.  ...  I  don't  intend  to  ruin  myself 
completely  for  your  sake  .  .  .  and  when  I  am 
gone,  what  then?" 

"I  have  my  dower;  I  will  get  along  without 
the  aid  of  Grzesikiewicz  or  anyone  like  him. 


14  The  Comedienne 

Aha,  so  your  object  in  wanting  to  marry  me 
is  simply  to  provide  for  my  support!"  She 
regarded  him  defiantly. 

"And  what  of  it?  For  what  else  do  women 
marry?" 

"They  marry  for  love  and  marry  those 
whom  they  love." 

"You're  a  fool,  I  tell  you  once  again,"  he 
shouted  vehemently,  helping  himself  to  an- 
other portion  of  chicken.  "  Love  is  nothing 
but  this  sauce,  you  can  eat  the  chicken  just 
as  well  without  it;  sauce  is  nothing  but  an 
invention,  a  freak  and  a  modern  fad! " 

"No  self-respecting  woman  sells  herself 
to  the  first  man  that  comes  along  merely 
because  he  is  capable  of  supporting  her ! " 

"You're  a  fool.  They  all  do  it,  they  all  sell 
themselves.  Love  is  childish  prattle  and 
nonsense.  Don't  irritate  me." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  irritating  you, 
father,  or  whether  love  is  nonsense  or  not;  it  is 
a  question  of  my  future  which  you  dispose  of 
as  though  it  belonged  to  you.  Already  at  the 
time  that  Zielenkiewicz  proposed  to  me.  I 
told  you  that  I  do  not  intend  to  marry  at  all." 

"Zielenkiewicz  is  merely  Zielenkiewicz,  but 
Grzesikiewicz  is  a  very  lord,  and  what  I  call 


The  Comedienne  15 

a  man!  He  is  kind-hearted,  wise — for  did  he 
not  graduate  from  the  academy  at  Dublany — 
and  as  strong  as  a  bull.  A  fellow  who  can 
master  the  wildest  horse  and  who,  when  he 
struck  a  peasant  in  the  face  the  other  day, 
knocked  out  six  of  his  teeth  with  one  blow — 
such  a  fellow  is  not  good  enough  for  you!  I 
swear  he  is  ideal,  the  highest  of  all  ideals!" 

"Yes,  your  ideal  is  an  incomparable  one; 
he'd  make  a  good  prize-fighter." 

1 '  You  are  as  crazy  as  your  mother  was.  Wait ! 
Andrew  will  muzzle  you  and  show  you  how  such 
women  are  ruled.  He  will  not  spare  the  whip . ' ' 

Janina  violently  shoved  aside  her  chair, 
threw  her  spoon  on  the  table,  and  left  the  room, 
slamming  the  door  after  her. 

"Don't  sit  there  gaping,  but  order  the 
cutlets  served  for  me,"  he  shouted  at  Mrs. 
Krenska,  who  gazed  after  Janina  with  a 
sympathetic  look. 

She  handed  him  the  dish  with  a  servile  mien, 
whispering  to  him  with  a  solicitous  tone  in  her 
voice,  "Mr.  Director,  you  must  not  irritate 
yourself  so,  it  is  not  good  for  your  health." 

"Such  is  my  fate!"  he  drawled.  "I  can't 
even  eat  in  peace,  without  having  to  listen  to 
these  everlasting  squabbles." 


16  The  Comedienne 

I 

He  then  began  to  air  at  length  his  griev- 
ances and  complaints  over  Janina's  stub- 
bornness, her  wilful  character,  and  his  continual 
troubles  with  her. 

Mrs.  Krenska  obsequiously  pretended  to 
agree  with  him,  and  occasionally  emphasized 
some  detail.  She  complained  discreetly  that 
she  also  had  to  bear  a  great  deal  because  of 
Janina,  sighed  deeply,  and  wheedled  him  at 
every  opportunity.  She  brought  in  the  coffee 
and  arrack  and  poured  it  for  him  herself. 
While  doing  so  she  fawned  upon  him,  touched 
his  hands  and  arms,  as  though  accidentally, 
lowered  her  eyes,  and  kept  up  a  continual 
flirtation,  trying  to  awaken  some  spark  in 
him. 

Orlowski's  anger  slowly  abated,  and  having 
drunk  his  coffee,  he  ejaculated,  " Thank  you! 
I  swear  to  God  that  you  alone  understand 
me.  .  .  .  You  are  a  kind  woman,  Mrs. 
Krenska." 

"Mr.  Director,  if  I  could  only  show  you 
what  I  feel,  what — "  she  faltered,  dropping 
her  eyes. 

Orlowski  pressed  her  hand  and  went  to  his 
own  room  for  a  nap. 

Mrs.  Krenska  ordered  the  table  cleared  and 


The  Comedienne  17 

afterwards,  when  she  was  alone,  took  up  some 
sewing  and  sat  near  the  window  facing  the 
station  platform.  Occasionally  she  would 
look  up  from  her  work  and  gaze  at  the  woods, 
or  at  the  long  line  of  rails,  but  everything 
seemed  deserted  and  silent.  Finally,  unable 
to  sit  still  any  longer,  she  arose  and  began  to 
pace  around  the  table  with  a  soft,  feline  step, 
smiling  and  repeating  to  herself : ' i  I  will  get  him, 
I  will  get  him !  At  last  I  will  find  a  little  rest  in 
my  life,  my  wanderings  will  come  to  an  end!" 

Scenes  from  the  past  floated  before  her 
memory:  whole  years  of  wandering  with  a 
company  of  provincial  actors.  Krenska  had 
abandoned  the  theater  because  she  managed 
to  catch  a  young  fellow  who  married  her.  She 
lived  with  him  for  two  whole  years  .  .  .  two 
years  which  she  recalled  with  bitterness.  Her 
husband  was  insanely  jealous  and  frequently 
beat  her. 

At  last  he  died  and  she  was  free,  but  she  had 
no  longer  any  desire  to  return  to  the  theater. 
She  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  resuming 
that  eternal  pilgrimage  from  town  to  town  and 
the  everlasting  poverty  of  a  provincial  actor's 
life.  Moreover,  she  realized  that  she  was 
growing  old  and  homely.  So  she  sold  all  her 


1 8  The  Comedienne 

household  furnishings,  received  a  pension  from 
the  management  to  which  her  husband  had 
belonged,  and  for  half  a  year  played  the  role  of 
a  widow.  She  was  very  eager  to  marry  a 
second  time  and  sedulously  spread  her  nets, 
but  all  in  vain,  for  her  own  temperament  stood 
in  the  way.  With  money  in  her  pocket,  there 
awakened  in  her  again  the  former  actress  with 
her  careless  and  sporty  disposition  and  craving 
for  pleasure  and  enjoyment.  Being  still  se- 
ductive, she  was  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of 
various  admirers  with  whom  she  squandered 
all  she  had,  together  with  the  reputation  which 
she  had  succeeded  in  establishing  for  herself 
with  the  aid  of  her  husband. 

Krenska  had  no  abilities  of  any  kind,  but 
she  possessed  a  great  deal  of  cleverness,  so, 
instead  of  resigning  herself  to  despair  when 
the  last  of  her  admirers  had  forsaken  her,  she 
inserted  an  advertisement  in  the  Kielce  Gazette 
reading:  "  Middle-aged  widow  of  a  government 
official  desires  position  as  a  housekeeper  to 
widower,  or  as  a  social  secretary." 

She  did  not  have  to  wait  long  for  results. 
Her  advertisement  was  answered  in  person  by 
Orlowski,  who  was  badly  in  need  of  a  house- 
keeper, for  Janina  was  still  attending  school 


The  Comedienne  19 

and  he  could  not  himself  manage  the  servants. 
Krenska  seemed  so  quiet,  humble,  and  full  of 
grief  over  the  loss  of  her  husband  that  he  did 
not  ask  her  any  questions,  but  engaged  her 
immediately. 

Orlowski  was  a  widower  who  possessed  a 
good  salary,  a  few  thousand  dollars  in  cash, 
and  an  only  daughter — an  absent  daughter 
whom  he  detested.  Krenska  at  first  tried  to 
turn  the  heads  of  the  station  officials,  but  very 
soon  sized  up  the  situation  and  immediately 
began  playing  a  new  r61e  whereby  she  per- 
severingly  strove  to  attain  the  last  act: 
Matrimony. 

Orlowski  became  used  to  her.  She  knew 
how  to  make  herself  indispensable  and  always 
to  show  that  indispensability  so  skillfully  that 
it  did  not  offend. 

Moreover,  the  gray  autumn  days  and  the 
long  wintry  evenings  brought  her  nearer  to  her 
goal,  for  Orlowski,  who  was  fifty-eight  years 
old  and  had  rheumatism,  was  always  a  maniac, 
but  during  his  rheumatic  attacks  he  would 
become  a  raving  maniac.  She  alone  knew 
how  to  mollify  and  manage  him  with  her 
inherent  cleverness,  sharpened  by  many  years 
of  theatrical  experience. 


20  The  Comedienne 

There  was  only  one  obstacle  in  her  way — 
Janina.  Krenska  realized  that  as  long  as 
Janina  was  at  home  she  could  accomplish 
nothing.  She  decided  to  wait — and  waited 
patiently. 

Orlowski  loved  his  daughter  with  hatred, 
that  is,  he  loved  her  because  he  hated  her. 
He  hated  her  because  she  was  the  daughter  of 
his  wife,  whose  memory  he  violently  cursed — 
his  wife,  who  after  two  years  of  conjugal  life, 
left  him,  because  she  could  no  longer  endure 
his  tyranny  and  eccentricities.  He  brought 
legal  action  against  her  and  tried  to  force  her 
to  return  to  him,  but  their  separation  became 
a  permanent  one.  He  raved  with  anger,  but 
his  relentlessness,  unexampled  stubbornness, 
and  insane  pride  prevented  him  from  begging 
his  wife  to  return,  which  she  might  have  done, 
for  she  was  a  good  woman.  Her  only  failing 
was  an  illness  that  baffled  all  the  provincial 
doctors.  She  had  the  soul  of  a  mimosa,  so 
sensitive  that  every  tear,  pain,  or  grief  would 
cast  her  into  despair.  Moreover  she  had  an 
abnormal  fear  of  thunderstorms,  showers, 
frogs,  dark  rooms,  unlucky  numbers,  and  all 
loud  sounds;  so  this  husband  of  hers  was 
killing  her  with  his  brutality. 


The  Comedienne  21 

Within  a  few  years  after  their  separation 
she  died  of  nervous  prostration,  leaving  Janina, 
who  was  then  ten  years  old.  Orlowski 
immediately  took  her  away  from  his  wife's 
family  by  force. 

An  additional  reason  for  his  hatred  of 
Janina  was  because  she  happened  to  be  a  girl. 
With  his  wild  and  violent  disposition  he 
wanted  a  son  on  whom  he  could  exercise  not 
only  his  fists,  but  also  his  everyday  humor. 
He  had  dreamed  of  a  son  and  fancied  that 
he  would  be  a  big  and  half -wild  fellow,  ener- 
getic and  as  strong  as  an  oak. 

He  immediately  sent  Janina  to  a  boarding- 
school,  seeing  her  only  once  a  year  during 
her  vacation.  She  spent  the  Christmas  and 
Easter  holidays  at  her  aunt's  home. 

For  these  vacations,  which  were  now  in 
their  third  year,  he  would  wait  impatiently, 
for  he  was  weary  of  being  alone  at  his  remote 
station.  And  as  soon  as  Janina  arrived 
hostilities  between  them  would  begin. 

Janina  grew  up  rapidly,  and  her  mental  and 
physical  development  were  of  the  best,  but 
having  been  conceived,  born,  and  reared  in  an 
environment  of  continual  hatred  and  quarrels 
and  nursed  with  the  tears  and  complaints  of 


22  The  Comedienne 

her  mother  at  her  father's  brutality,  she  natu- 
rally disliked  him  and  feared  his  scorn.  This 
developed  in  her  secretiveness  and  resent- 
ment. She  rebelled  against  his  despotism  and 
niggardliness. 

Janina  inherited  a  few  thousand  rubles 
from  her  mother,  and  her  father  told  her 
plainly  that  the  interest  on  that  sum  would 
have  to  suffice  her,  for  he  did  not  intend  to 
give  her  a  single  kopeck.  She  attended  a 
first-class  boarding-school,  but  after  paying 
her  fees  and,  later,  her  expenses  at  the  academy 
she  had  so  little  left  for  her  immediate  needs 
that  she  had  to  continually  think  of  how  to 
make  ends  meet  and  to  feel  ashamed  because 
of  her  worn  shoes  and  dresses. 

In  a  few  years  her  classmates  began  to  fear 
her,  even  the  teachers  often  gave  way  to  her, 
for  she  had  her  father's  violent  character  and 
brooked  no  restraint.  She  never  wept  nor 
complained,  but  she  was  ever  ready  to  avenge 
her  wrongs  with  her  fists,  irrespective  of  what 
might  happen  to  her.  At  the  same  time  she 
was  always  one  of  the  brightest  scholars  in  her 
class. 

All  sincerely  disliked  her,  but  had  to  grant 
her  supremacy.  She  herself  became  conscious 


The  Comedienne  23 

of  her  superiority  over  the  throng  of  her  class- 
mates, who  treated  her  with  aloofness,  laughed 
at  her  shabby  dresses  and  shoes,  and  barred 
her  from  all  intimacy  with  them.  Later  she 
paid  them  back  with  unrelenting  vengeance. 

There  were  times  when  Orlowski  was  proud 
of  Janina  and  warmly  defended  her  before 
his  friends,  for  the  whole  neighborhood  was 
shocked  at  her  tomboyish  adventures.  She 
would  tramp  through  the  woods  late  at  night 
and  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  alone,  like  a  young 
wild-boar  separated  from  the  herd.  She  was 
not  a  bit  ashamed  of  climbing  up  trees  for 
birds'  nests,  nor  of  riding  astride  in  horse- 
races with  the  peasant  lads  on  the  pasturage. 
To  avoid  her  father  she  would  stay  away 
from  home  for  whole  days  at  a  time,  dreaming 
of  her  return  to  school,  while  at  school  she 
would  again  dream  of  returning  to  the  solitude 
of  her  home. 

Such  was  Janina  up  to  about  the  eighteenth 
year  of  her  life  when  she  graduated  from  high 
school  and  returned  home  for  good.  In  her 
outward  life  she  quieted  down,  but  inwardly 
she  became  even  more  restless  than  before. 

With  her  friend,  Helen  Walder,  ideally 
beautiful  and  day  dreaming  of  the  emanci- 


24  The  Comedienne 

pation  of  woman,  she  had  parted.  Helen 
went  to  Paris  to  study  science.  Janina  had 
no  desire  to  go,  for  she  didn't  feel  the  need  of 
any  knowledge  of  an  abstract  nature.  She 
yearned  for  something  that  would  exert  a  more 
potent  influence  upon  her  temperament — 
something  that  would  absorb  her  whole  being 
for  all  time. 

Men,  Janina  avoided  almost  entirely,  for 
they  angered  her  with  their  impudence;  the 
women  bored  her  with  their  everlasting  repe- 
tition of  gossip,  troubles,  and  intrigues.  People 
in  general  seemed  to  keep  aloof  from  her. 
All  sorts  of  stories  about  her,  more  or  less  false, 
were  circulated  in  the  neighborhood. 

She  was  a  puzzle  to  all  who  knew  her. 
Meanwhile,  in  her  own  soul  she  was  waging  a 
battle  with  her  desires,  to  which  she  knew  not 
how  to  give  a  definite  form.  She  asked  her- 
self why  she  lived.  She  buried  herself  in 
books,  but  found  no  comfort  there.  She 
felt  that  she  must  find  something  that  would 
absorb  and  thrill  her  entire  being,  felt  that  she 
would  find  it  sooner  or  later,  but  in  the  mean- 
while the  agony  of  waiting  almost  drove  her 
mad. 

Zielenkiewicz,  the  owner  of  a  heavily  mort- 


The  Comedienne  25 

gaged  village,  proposed  to  her.  Janina  laughed 
outright  at  him  and  told  him  to  his  face  that 
she  did  not  intend  to  pay  his  debts  with  her 
dower. 

She  had  reached  her  twenty-first  year  and 
was  beginning  to  lose  patience,  when  a  com- 
monplace occurrence  decided  her  whole  future. 

In  a  nearby  town  an  amateur  theatrical  was 
being  arranged.  Three  one-act  plays  were 
selected  and  the  parts  had  already  been 
assigned,  when  there  came  a  hitch:  no  one 
wanted  to  accept  the  r61e  of  Pawlowa  in  Bli- 
zinski's  The  March  Bachelor. 

The  dramatic  coach  insisted  on  presenting 
this  play,  for  he  wanted  to  twit  a  certain 
neighbor  with  it,  but  none  of  the  ladies  would 
play  the  parts  of  Pawlowa  or  Eulalia. 

Someone  proposed  that  they  request  Janina 
Orlowska  to  take  the  part  of  Pawlowa,  for  they 
knew  that  she  dared  anything.  She  accepted 
it  rather  indifferently,  and  Mrs.  Krenska,  in 
whom  memories  of  her  histrionic  past  had 
suddenly  awakened,  induced  Orlowski  to  an- 
nounce that  an  amateur  had  also  been  found 
for  the  part  of  Eulalia. 

The  rehearsals  lasted  for  about  three  months, 
for  the  cast  of  the  players  was  changed  several 


26  The  Comedienne 

times — the  usual  fuss  and  confusion  of  pro- 
vincial theaters  where  none  of  the  ladies  want 
to  assume  the  part  of  an  old,  quarrelsome,  or 
shady  character,  or  that  of  a  maid,  but  all  wish 
to  be  heroines. 

Krenska,  whom  Janina  kept  at  a  respectful 
distance  from  herself,  never  confiding  any- 
thing to  her  nor  asking  her  advice,  found  a 
good  reason  in  the  play  for  approaching  her. 
She  began  to  give  her  lessons  in  the  art  of 
acting,  untiringly. 

So  absorbed  did  she  become  with  her  part, 
so  deeply  did  she  enter  into  the  character,  and 
so  well  did  it  fit  her  that  she  gave  a  very 
creditable  presentation.  She  was  every  inch 
a  peasant  woman,  a  genuine  Pawlowa,  and 
received  a  clamorous  ovation  at  the  end  of  the 
play.  This  momentary  triumph  and  the 
consciousness  of  her  power  filled  her  with  a 
wild  and  unrestrained  joy.  It  was  with  a 
feeling  of  intense  regret  that  she  saw  the  final 
curtain  fall. 

Krenska  also  created  quite  a  furore.  It 
was  a  role  that  she  had  often  played  with 
great  success  on  the  real  stage.  During  the 
intermissions  everyone  was  speaking  only  of 
her  and  of  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  27 

"A  comedienne!  A  born  actress!"  whis- 
pered the  ladies,  regarding  Janina  with  a  sort 
of  contemptuous  pity. 

Orlowski,  whom  they  thanked  and  con- 
gratulated for  having  so  talented  a  daughter 
and  companion,  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
was,  however,  satisfied,  for  he  went  behind  the 
scenes,  petted  Janina,  and  kissed  Krenska's 
hand. 

"Good,  good!  .  .  .  Nothing  extraordi- 
nary, but  at  least  I  don't  have  to  feel  ashamed 
of  you,"  was  all  the  praise  that  he  gave  them. 

After  the  performance  Janina  drew  closer  to 
Krenska  and  the  latter,  in  a  moment  of  weak- 
ness, betrayed  the  secret  concerning  her  past 
life.  She  revealed  to  Janina  a  new  realm, 
wondrous  and  alluring. 

She  listened  with  rapt  attention  to  Kren- 
ska's accounts  of  the  stage,  her  numerous 
appearances  and  triumphs,  and  the  vivid  life 
of  an  actor.  As  she  related  her  experiences 
Krenska  was  herself  carried  away  by  enthusi- 
asm and  painted  them  in  glowing  colors;  she 
no  longer  remembered  the  miseries  of  that  life 
and  held  up  only  the  brightest  pictures  to  the 
gaze  of  the  enraptured  girl.  She  pulled  out  of 
her  trunk  faded  and  musty  copies  of  r61es  she 


28  The  Comedienne 

had  once  impersonated,  read  them  to  Janina 
and  played  them,  stirred  by  memories  of  the 
past. 

All  this  fascinated  the  girl  and  awoke  in  her 
certain  strong  desires,  but  it  did  not,  as  yet, 
absorb  her;  it  was  not,  as  yet,  that  mysterious 
"something"  for  which  she  had  been  waiting 
so  long. 

She  began  to  read  with  great  interest  the 
theatrical  criticisms  and  the  details  about 
actors  in  the  newspapers.  Finally,  whether 
actuated  by  ennui  or  by  an  instinctive  impulse, 
she  bought  a  complete  set  of  Shakespeare's 
works  and,  forthwith,  was  lost!  She  found 
that  "something"  for  which  she  had  sought 
so  long;  she  found  her  hero,  her  aim,  her  ideal 
—it  was  the  theater.  She  devoured  Shake- 
speare with  all  the  inherent  intensity  of  her 
nature. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  epitomize  the  violent 
upheaval  that  now  took  place  in  Janina's  soul, 
the  wild  soaring  of  her  imagination,  and  the 
enlargement  and  expansion  of  her  whole  being. 
There  swarmed  about  her  a  -vast  throng  of 
characters — evil,  noble,  base,  petty,  heroic, 
and  struggling  souls.  There  passed  through 
her  such  tones  and  words,  such  overwhelming 


The  Comedienne  29 

thoughts  and  emotions  that  she  felt  as  though 
the  whole  universe  was  contained  in  her  soul ! 

She  became  consumed  with  a  desire  for  the 
theater  and  for  unusual  emotions.  The  win- 
ters seemed  too  warm  for  her,  the  snowfalls  too 
light;  the  springs  dragged  along  too  slowly, 
the  summers  were  too  cool,  the  autumns  too 
dry;  all  this  she  visioned  in  her  imagination  in 
far  grander  outlines.  She  wished  to  see  the 
acme  of  beauty,  the  acme  of  evil,  and  every  act 
magnified  to  titanic  proportions. 

Orlowski  knew  a  little  about  her  "  disease, " 
but  he  smiled  at  it  in  scorn. 

"You  comedienne ! "  he  called  her,  scoffingly. 

Krenska  would  add  fuel  to  this  fire,  for  she 
wished  at  any  cost  to  see  Janina  leave  home. 
She  persuaded  her  of  her  talent  and  warmly 
praised  the  theatrical  career. 

Janina  could  not  pluck  up -courage  to  take 
the  decisive  step.  She  feared  those  dark  and 
vague  presentiments  and  an  unaccountable 
feeling  of  terror  at  times  would  seize  upon  her. 
She  could  not  summon  the  necessary  deter- 
mination. A  storm  of  some  kind  only  could 
uproot  her  and  carry  her  far  away  from  home 
in  the  same  way  as  it  uprooted  the  trees  and 
scattered  them  over  the  desolate  fields.  She 


30  The  Comedienne 

was  waiting  now  for  some  chance  happening 
to  cast  her  into  the  world.  Krenska,  in  the 
meanwhile,  kept  her  informed  of  the  activities 
of  the  provincial  theatrical  companies.  Janina 
made  certain  preparations  and  savings.  Her 
father  paid  her  regularly  the  interest  on  her 
inheritance  and  this  enabled  her  in  a  year's 
time  to  lay  aside  about  two  hundred  rubles. 

Grzesikiewicz's  proposal  and  her  father's 
insistance  on  her  marriage  roused  a  stormy 
protest  in  her. 

"No,  no,  no! "  she  repeated  to  herself,  pacing 
excitedly  up  and  down  her  room.  "I  will  not 
marry!" 

Janina  had  never  contemplated  matrimony 
seriously.  At  times  the  vision  of  a  great, 
overwhelming  love  would  gleam  through  her 
mind,  and  she  would  dream  of  it  for  a  while; 
but  of  marriage  she  had  never  given  a  thought. 

She  even  liked  Grzesikiewicz,  because  he 
would  never  speak  lightly  to  her  about  love, 
nor  enact  those  amorous  comedies  to  which 
other  admirers  had  accustomed  her.  She 
liked  him  for  the  simplicity  with  which  he 
would  relate  all  that  he  had  to  suffer  at  school, 
how  he  was  abused  and  humiliated  as  the  son 
of  a  peasant  and  innkeeper  and  how  he  paid 


The  Comedienne  31 

them  back  in  peasant  fashion — with  his  fists. 
He  would  smile  while  relating  this  to  her, 
but  there  was  in  his  smile  a  trace  of  sorrow. 

She  opened  the  door  of  her  father's  room 
and  was  about  to  tell  him  abruptly  and  de- 
cisively that  there  was  no  need  of  Grze- 
sikiewicz's  coming,  but  Orlowski  was  already 
enjoying  his  after-dinner  nap,  seated  in  a  big 
arm-chair  with  his  feet  propped  against  the 
window-sill.  The  sun  was  shining  straight 
into  his  face  which  was  almost  entirely  bronzed 
from  sunburn. 

Janina  withdrew. 

"No,  no,  no!  ...  Even  though  I  have  to 
run  away  from  home,  I  will  not  marry!" 
she  repeated  to  herself  fiercely. 

But  immediately  there  followed  this  deter- 
mination a  feeling  of  womanly  helplessness. 

"I  will  go  to  my  uncle's  house.  .  .  .  Yes! 
.  .  .  and  from  there  I  will  go  to  the  stage. 
No  one  can  force  me  to  stay  here." 

Thereupon,  the  blood  would  rush  to  her 
head  with  indignation  and  she  would  immedi- 
ately gaze  with  courage  into  the  future, 
determined  to  meet  anything  that  might 
happen  rather  than  submit. 

She  heard  her  father  arise  and  then  go  to  the 


32  The  Comedienne 

window;  she  listened  to  the  station  bells,  and 
to  the  jabbering  of  a  few  Jews  who  were  board- 
ing the  train ;  she  saw  the  red  cap  of  her  father, 
and  the  yellow  striped  cap  of  the  telegrapher 
conversing  through  his  window  with  some 
lady;  she  saw  and  heard  all,  but  understood 
nothing,  so  absorbed  was  she  in  thought. 

Krenska  entered  and  in  her  habitual  way 
began  to  circle  around  the  table  with  quiet, 
cat-like  motion  before  she  spoke.  Her  face 
bore  an  expression  of  sympathy  and  there  was 
tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"Miss  Janina!" 

The  young  woman  glanced  at  her. 

"No!  I  assure  you  that  I  will  not!"  she 
said  with  emphasis. 

"Your  father  gave  Grzesikiewicz  his  word 
of  honor  ...  he  will  demand  unquestioning 
obedience  .  .  .  what  will  come  of  it?" 

"No!  I  will  not  marry!  .  .  .  My  father 
can  retract  his  word;  he  cannot  compel 
me " 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  there  will  be  an  awful  rum- 
pus, an  awful  rumpus!" 

"I  have  stood  so  many,  I  can  stand  some 


more." 


I  am  afraid  that  this  one  will  not  end  so 


The  Comedienne  33 

smoothly.  Your  father  has  such  a  dreadful 
temper.  ...  I  can't  understand  how  you  are 
able  to  bear  as  much  as  you  do.  ...  If  I  were 
in  your  place,  Miss  Janina,  I  know  what  I 
should  do  .  .  .  and  do  it  now,  immediately!" 

"I  am  anxious  to  know  .  .  .  give  me  your 
advice." 

"First  of  all,  I  would  leave  home  to  avoid  all 
this  trouble  before  it  begins.  I  would  go  to 
Warsaw." 

"Well,  and  what  would  you  do  next?" 
asked  Janina  with  trembling  voice. 

"I  would  join  some  theater  and  let  happen 
what  will!" 

"Yes,  that's  a  good  idea,  but  .  .  .  but " 

And  she  broke  off,  for  the  old  helplessness 
and  fears  reasserted  themselves.  She  sat 
silent  without  answering  Krenska. 

Janina  put  on  a  jacket  and  felt  hat  and  tak- 
ing a  stick  wandered  off  into  the  woods. 

She  climbed  to  the  top  of  that  rocky  hill 
from  which  spread  out  below  her  a  wide  view 
of  the  woods,  the  villages  beyond  them,  and 
an  endless  expanse  of  fields.  She  sat  gazing 
about  her  for  a  while,  but  the  calm  that 
reigned  all  around,  contrasted  with  the  feeling 
of  unquiet  and  foreboding  in  her  own  soul,  as 


34  The  Comedienne 

before  an  impending  storm,  gave  her  no 
peace. 

At  dusk  Janina  returned  home.  She  did 
not  speak  either  to  her  father  or  to  Krenska 
but  immediately  after  supper  went  to  her  own 
room  and  sat  reading  George  Sand's  Consuelo 
until  a  late  hour. 

During  the  night  she  was  perturbed  with 
unquiet  dreams  from  which  she  started  up 
every  now  and  then,  perspiring  heavily,  and 
awoke  fully  before  dawn,  unable  to  sleep  any 
longer.  She  lay  upon  her  bed  with  wide  open 
eyes,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  ceiling  on  which 
flickered  a  patch  of  light  reflected  from  the 
station  lamp.  A  train  went  roaring  by  and 
she  listened  for  a  long  while  to  its  rhythmic 
rumbling  and  clatter  that  seemed  like  a  whole 
choir  of  voices  and  tones  streaming  in  through 
her  window. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  steeped  in  a 
twilight  full  of  pale  gleams  that  flickered  like 
severed  rays  from  a  light  long  since  extin- 
guished, she  seemed  to  see  apparitions  and 
vague  outlines  of  mysterious  scenes,  figures, 
and  sounds.  Her  wearied  brain  peopled  the 
room  with  the  phantoms  of  hallucination. 
She  beheld,  as  it  were,  a  vast  edifice  with  a 


The  Comedienne  35 

long  row  of  columns  that  seemed  to  emerge 
from  the  dusk  and  take  shape. 

In  the  morning  she  arose  so  worn  out  that 
she  could  scarcely  stand  on  her  feet. 

She  heard  her  father  issuing  orders  for  a 
sumptuous  dinner  and  saw  them  making 
preparations.  Krenska  circled  about  her  on 
tiptoe  and  smiled  at  her  with  a  subtle,  ironi- 
cal smile  that  irritated  Janina.  She  felt 
dazed  with  exhaustion  and  the  storm  that  was 
brewing  within  her,  and  beheld  everything 
with  indifference,  for  her  mind  was  continually 
dwelling  on  the  impending  battle  with  her 
father.  She  tried  to  read  or  occupy  herself 
with  something,  but  was  too  nervous. 

She  ran  off  to  the  woods,  but  immediately 
came  back,  for  she  knew  not  what  to  do  there. 
A  lethargy  seemed  to  take  hold  of  her  and 
benumb  her  with  an  ever  greater  fear.  Try  as 
she  would,  Janina  could  not  shake  off  this  de- 
pressing mood. 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began 
mechanically  to  play  scales,  but  the  somnolent 
monotony  of  the  tones  only  added  to  her 
nervousness.  Later  she  played  some  of  Cho- 
pin's Nocturnes,  lingered  over  those  mysterious 
tones  that  seemed  like  strains  from  another 


36  The  Comedienne 

world,  full  of  tears,  pain,  cries  of  anguish,  and 
bleak  despair;  the  radiance  of  cold  moonlight 
nights,  moans  like  the  whisper  of  departing 
souls,  the  laughter  of  parting,  the  soft  vibra- 
tions of  subtle,  sad  life. 

Suddenly,  Janina  stopped  playing  and  burst 
into  tears.  She  wept  for  a  long  time,  not 
knowing  why  she  wept — she  who  since  her 
mother's  death  had  not  shed  a  single  tear. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life — which  up  till 
now  had  been  one  continuous  struggle,  revolt, 
and  protest — she  felt  overcome  by  distress. 
There  awakened  in  her  an  irresistible  longing 
to  share  her  sorrows  with  someone,  a  longing 
to  confide  to  some  sympathetic  heart  those 
bewildered  thoughts  and  feelings,  that  un- 
explainable  misery  and  fear.  She  yearned 
for  sympathy,  feeling  that  her  distress  would 
be  smaller,  her  anguish  less  violent,  her  tears 
not  so  bitter,  if  she  could  open  her  heart  before 
some  sincere  woman  friend. 

Krenska  summoned  her  to  dinner,  announc- 
ing that  Grzesikiewicz  was  already  waiting. 

She  wiped  away  the  traces  of  tears  from  her 
eyes,  arranged  her  hair — and  went. 

Grzesikiewicz  kissed  her  hand  and  seated 
himself  beside  her  at  the  table. 


The  Comedienne  37 

Orlowski  was  in  a  holiday  humor  and  every 
now  and  then  twitted  Janina  and  hurled  tri- 
umphant glances  at  her. 

Grzesikiewicz  was  silent  and  uneasy;  oc- 
casionally he  would  speak,  but  in  such  a 
low  tone,  Janina  could  scarcely  hear  what  he 
said.  Mrs.  Krenska  was  plainly  excited. 

A  gloomy  atmosphere  hung  over  them  all. 
The  dinner  dragged  wearily  on.  Orlowski  at 
times  became  wrapt  in  thought,  and  would 
then  knit  his  brows,  angrily  tug  at  his 
beard,  and  fling  murderous  glances  at  his 
daughter. 

After  dinner  they  went  to  the  parlor.  Black 
coffee  and  cognac  were  served.  Orlowski 
quickly  gulped  down  his  coffee  and  left  the 
room,  kissing  Janina  on  the  forehead  and 
growling  some  unintelligible  remark  as  he 
departed. 

They  remained  alone. 

Janina  kept  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Grzesikiewicz,  all  flushed  and  flustered  and 
unlike  himself,  began  to  say  something,  taking 
little  swallows  of  coffee  in  between,  until, 
finally,  he  drained  it  off  at  the  gulp  and 
shoved  his  cup  and  saucer  aside  so  vigor- 
ously that  they  went  tumbling  over  the  table. 


38  The  Comedienne 

She  laughed  at  his  violence  and  embarrass- 
ment. 

"At  a  moment  like  this  a  man  could  swallow 
a  lamp  without  noticing  it,"  he  remarked. 

"That  would  be  quite  a  feat,"  she  answered, 
again  bursting  into  empty  laughter. 

"Are  you  laughing  at  me?"  he  asked 
uneasily. 

"No,  only  the  idea  of  swallowing  a  lamp 
seemed  comical." 

They  relapsed  into  silence.  Janina  fidgeted 
with  the  window-shade,  while  Grzesikiewicz 
tore  at  his  gloves  and  impulsively  bit  his 
moustache;  he  was  literally  shaking  with 
emotion. 

"It  is  so  hard  for  me,  so  awfully  hard!"  he 
began,  raising  his  eyes  to  her  entreatingly. 

"Why?"  she  queried  tersely  and  evasively. 

"Well,  because  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  For 
God's  sake,  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer!  No, 
I  can't  endure  this  torment  any  longer,  so  I'll 
come  right  out  with  it :  I  love  you,  Miss  Janina, 
and  beg  you  for  your  hand,"  he  cried  aloud, 
at  once  sighing  with  immense  relief.  But 
immediately  he  struck  his  forehead  with  his 
hand  and,  taking  Janina's  hand,  began  anew: 

"  I  have  loved  you  ever  so  long,  but  feared  to 


The  Comedienne  39 

tell  you.  And  now  I  don't  know  how  to 
express  it  as  I  would  like  to.  ...  I  love 
you  and  beg  you  to  be  my  wife.  ..." 

He  kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  gazed  at 
her  with  his  blue,  honest  eyes  burning  with 
blind  love.  His  lips  twitched  nervously  and 
a  pallor  overspread  his  features. 

Janina  arose  from  her  chair  and,  looking 
straight  into  his  eyes,  answered  slowly  and 
quietly:  "I  do  not  love  you." 

All  her  nervousness  had  vanished. 

Grzesikiewicz  recoiled  violently,  as  though 
someone  had  struck  him,  as  though  he  did  not 
understand.  He  said  with  a  trembling  voice: 

"Miss  Janina  ...  be  my  wife  ...  I  love 
you!" 

"I  do  not  love  you  ...  I  cannot  there- 
fore marry  you  ...  I  will  not  marry  at  all ! " 
she  answered  in  the  same  cold  tone,  but  at  the 
last  word  her  voice  wavered  with  an  accent  of 
pity  for  him. 

"God!"  cried  Grzesikiewicz,  holding  his 
hand  to  his  head.  "What  does  it  mean?  .  .  . 
You  will  not  marry!  .  .  .  You  will  not  be  my 
wife!  .  .  .  You  do  not  love  me!" 

He  threw  himself  impulsively  on  his  knees 
before  her,  seized  her  hands,  and,  covering 


40  The  Comedienne 

them  with  kisses,  began,  with  what  seemed 
almost  tears  of  feverish  terror,  to  entreat  her 
fervently,  humbly. 

"You  do  not  love  me?  .  .  .  You  will  love 
me  in  time.  I  swear  that  I,  my  mother,  and 
my  father  will  be  your  slaves.  I  will  wait  if  you 
wish  .  .  .  Say  that  in  a  year,  or  two,  or  even 
five,  you  will  love  me.  ...  I  will  wait.  .  .  . 
I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  wait !  But  do  not  say 
no  to  me !  For  God's  sake  do  not  say  that,  for 
I  shall  go  mad  with  despair!  How  can  it  be? 
You  do  not  love  me!  .  .  .  But  I  love  you 
...  we  all  love  you  ...  we  cannot  live 
without  you!  .  .  .  no.  .  .  .  Your  father  told 
me  that  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  and  now  .  .  .  God! 
I  will  go  crazy!  What  are  you  doing  to  me! 
What  are  you  doing  to  me!" 

Springing  up  from  the  floor  he  fairly  cried 
aloud  with  pain. 

Mechanically  he  pulled  off  his  gloves,  tore 
them  to  pieces  and  flung  them  on  the  floor, 
buttoned  up  his  coat  to  the  topmost  button, 
and  struggling  to  control  himself  said:  "Fare- 
well, Miss  Janina.  But  always  .  .  .  every- 
where .  .  .  forever  ...  I  will  .  .  ."  he 
whispered  with  great  effort,  bowed  his  head 
and  went  toward  the  door. 


The  Comedienne  41 

"Andrew!"  she  called  after  him  forcibly. 

Grzesikiewicz  turned  back  from  the  door. 

" Andrew, "  she  said  in  a  pleading  voice,  "I 
do  not  love  you,  but  I  respect  you.  ...  I 
cannot  marry  you,  I  cannot  .  .  .  but  I  will 
always  think  of  you  as  of  a  noble  man.  Surely 
you  will  understand  that  it  would  be  a  base 
thing  for  me  to  marry  a  man  whom  I  do  not 
love  ...  I  know  that  you  detest  falsehood 
and  hypocrisy — and  so  do  I.  Forgive  me  for 
hurting  you,  but  I  also  suffer  ...  I  also  am 
not  happy — oh  no!" 

"Janina — if  you  would  only  ...  if  you 
would  only  ..." 

She  regarded  him  with  such  a  sorrowful 
expression  that  he  became  silent.  Then  slowly 
he  left  the  room. 

Janina  still  sat  there  dazed,  staring  at  the 
door  through  which  he  had  gone,  when  Orlow- 
ski  entered  the  room. 

He  had  met  Grzesikiewicz  on  the  stairs  and 
in  his  face  had  read  what  had  happened. 

Janina  uttered  a  little  cry  of  fear,  so  great  a 
change  had  come  over  him.  His  face  was 
ashen-gray,  his  eyes  seemed  to  bulge  from  their 
sockets,  his  head  swayed  violently  from  side 
to  side. 


42  The  Comedienne 

He  seated  himself  near  the  table  and  with  a 
quiet,  smothered  voice  asked,  "What  did  you 
tell  Grzesikiewicz?" 

"What  I  told  you  yesterday;  that  I  do  not 
love  him  and  will  not  marry  him!"  she  an- 
swered boldly,  but  she  was  startled  at  the 
seeming  calm  with  which  her  father  spoke. 

"Why?"  he  queried  sharply,  as  though  he 
did  not  understand  her. 

' '  I  told  him  that  I  do  not  love  him  and  do 
not  wish  to  marry  at  all.  ..." 

"You  are  a  fool!  .  .  .  a  fool!  .  .  .  a  fool!" 
he  hissed  at  her  through  his  tightly  set  teeth. 

She  regarded  him  calmly  and  all  her  old 
obstinacy  returned. 

"I  said  that  you  would  marry  him.  I  gave 
my  word  that  you  would  marry  him,  and  you 
will  marry  him!" 

"I  will  not!  ...  no  one  is  able  to  force 
me!"  she  answered  sullenly,  looking  with 
steady  gaze  into  her  father's  eyes. 

"  I  will  drag  you  to  the  altar.  I  will  compel 
you!  .  .  .  You  must!  ..."  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"No!" 

"You  will  marry  Grzesikiewicz,  I  tell  you; 
I,  your  father,  command  you  to  do  so!  You 
will  obey  me  immediately,  or  I  will  kill  you!" 


The  Comedienne  43 

"Very  well,  kill  me,  if  you  want  to,  but  111 
not  obey  you!" 

"I  will  drive  you  out  of  this  house!"  he 
shouted. 

"Very  well!" 

"I  will  disown  you!" 

' '  Very  well ! ' '  she  answered  with  growing  de- 
termination. Janina  felt  that  with  each  word 
her  heart  was  hardening  with  greater  resolve. 

"I'll  drive  you  out  .  .  .  do  you  hear?  .  .  . 
and  even  though  you  die  of  hunger,  I  never 
want  to  hear  of  you  again!" 

"Very  well!" 

"Janina!  I  warn  you,  don't  drive  me  to 
extremity.  I  beg  you  marry  Grzesikiewicz, 
my  daughter,  my  child!  .  .  .  Isn't  it  for  your 
good?  You  have  no  one  but  me  in  the  world 
and  I  am  old  ...  I  will  die  .  .  .  and  you  will 
remain  alone  without  protection  or  support. 
.  .  .  Janina,  you  have  never  loved  me!  .  .  . 
If  you  knew  how  unhappy  I  have  been  through- 
out my  life,  you  would  take  pity  on  me! " 

"No!  .  .  .  Never!  ..."  she  answered, 
unmoved  even  by  his  pleading. 

"I  ask  you  for  the  last  time!"  he  shouted. 

"For  the  last  time  I  tell  you  no!"  she  flung 
back  at  him. 


44  The  Comedienne 

Orlowski  hurled  his  chair  to  the  floor  with 
such  force  that  it  was  shattered  to  pieces.  He 
tore  open  the  collar  of  his  shirt,  so  violent 
was  the  paroxysm  of  fury  that  had  seized  him, 
and  with  the  broken  arm  of  the  chair  in  his 
hand,  he  sprang  at  Janina  to  strike  her,  but 
the  cold,  almost  scornful,  expression  of  her  face 
brought  him  to  his  senses. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  he  roared,  pointing  to 
the  door,  "get  out!  .  .  .  Do  you  hear?  I 
turn  you  out  of  my  home  forever!  .  .  .  You 
will  never  again  pass  this  threshold  while  I 
live,  for  I  will  kill  you  like  a  mad  dog  and 
throw  you  out  of  the  door!  ...  I  have  no 
longer  any  daughter!" 

"Very  well,  I  will  go  .  .  ."  she  answered 
mechanically. 

"I  no  longer  have  any  daughter!  Hence- 
forth I  don't  want  to  know  you  or  hear  any- 
thing of  you!  .  .  .  Go  and  perish  ...  I 
will  kill  you!  .  .  ."  he  shouted,  rushing  up 
and  down  the  room  like  a  madman. 

His  insane  violence  now  burst  out  in  full 
force.  He  rushed  out  of  the  house  and  from 
the  window  Janina  saw  him  running  toward 
the  woods. 

She  sat  silent,  dumb,  and  as  though  turned 


The  Comedienne  45 

to  ice.  She  had  expected  everything,  but 
never  this.  She  burned  with  resentment  but 
not  a  single  tear  clouded  her  eye.  She  gazed 
about  her  distractedly,  for  that  hoarse  cry 
still  rang  in  her  ears:  "Get  out  of  here!  .  .  . 
get  out! " 

"I  will  go,  I  will  go  .  .  ."  she  whispered 
in  a  humble  and  broken  voice  through  the 
tears  that  filled  her  heart,  "I  will  go.  ..." 

"God,  my  God!  why  am  I  so  unhappy ?" 
she  cried  after  a  while. 

Krenska,  who  had  heard  all,  approached 
her.  With  feigned  tears  in  her  eyes  she  began 
to  comfort  her,  but  Janina  gently  pushed  her 
away.  It  was  not  that  which  she  needed;  not 
that  kind  of  comforting. 

4 'My  father  has  driven  me  out  .  .  .  I  must 
leave  ..."  she  said,  marveling  at  her  own 
words. 

"But  that  is  preposterous!  .  .  .  Surely 
your  father  can  be  placated.  ..." 

"No  .  .  .  I  will  not  stay  here  any  longer.  I 
have  enough  of  this  torment  .  .  .  enough.  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  going  to  your  aunt's  house?" 

Janina  was  sunk  in  thought  for  a  moment, 
but  suddenly  her  gloomy  face  brightened  with 
a  flash  of  determination. 


46  The  Comedienne 

"I  will  go  and  join  the  theater.  The  die  is 
cast!  ..." 

Krenska  glanced  at  her  sharply. 

"Come,  help  me  pack  my  trunk.  I  will 
leave  on  the  next  train." 

"The  next  passenger  train  does  not  go  to 
Kielce." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  I  will  go  to  Strzemi- 
eszyce,  and  from  there,  by  the  Viennese  line  to 
Warsaw.  ..." 

"  If  I  were  you,  Janina,  I'd  think  it  over.  .  .  . 
Later  you  may  regret  it.  ..." 

"What's  done  can't  be  undone!  ..." 

And  without  paying  any  further  attention  to 
Krenska's  remarks,  Janina  began  to  pack. 
Her  lingerie,  her  dresses,  her  books  and  notes, 
and  various  trifles  she  carefully  folded  away 
into  her  school-day  trunk,  as  though  she  were 
returning  from  her  vacation. 

At  the  end  she  bade  farewell  to  Krenska 
indifferently.  Outwardly  she  appeared  calm 
and  cool,  while  a  slight  tremor  of  her  lips 
alone,  and  an  inner  tremor  that  she  could  not 
still,  were  the  only  traces  of  the  storm. 

She  ordered  her  things  carried  downstairs, 
and,  having  still  an  hour's  time,  she  went  to 
the  woods. 


The  Comedienne  47 

"Forever  .  .  . "  she  said  in  a  subdued  tone, 
as  though  addressing  the  trees  that  seemed 
to  bend  toward  her  with  a  mournful  murmur 
and  rustling  of  their  leaves. 

"Forever!  ..."  she  whispered,  gazing  at 
the  crimson  gleams  of  the  setting  sun  that 
filtered  through  the  tangled  branches  of  the 
beeches  and  shone  upon  the  ground. 

The  woods  seemed  wrapt  in  a  great  silence, 
as  though  they  were  listening  to  her  words  of 
final  farewell  and  dumbly  wondering  how  one 
who  had  been  born  and  reared  in  their  midst, 
who  had  lived  with  their  life,  who  had  dreamed 
so  many  dreams  in  their  embracing  silence, 
could  bid  farewell. 

The  trees  murmured  mournfully.  A  sigh 
like  a  song  of  farewell  and  a  sad  reproach 
echoed  through  the  wood.  The  ferns  stirred 
with  a  gentle  motion,  the  young  hazel  leaves 
fluttered  restlessly,  the  pines  rustled  softly 
with  their  slender  needles — the  whole  wood 
trembled  and  became  alive  with  a  prolonged 
moan.  The  song  of  the  birds  sounded  in 
broken,  startled  little  snatches,  while  over  the 
sky,  and  over  the  earth  carpeted  with  leaves 
and  golden  mosses  and  snowy  valley-lilies, 
and  through  the  whole  verdant  wood  there 


48  The  Comedienne 

flitted  mysterious  shadows,  sounds  and  calls 
like  the  echo  of  sorrowful  sobbing. 

"Stay  with  me!  .  .  .  Stay!"  the  wood 
seemed  to  say. 

The  torrent  roared  noisily,  swept  away  the 
broken  boughs  that  impeded  its  course,  circled 
and  descended  in  a  cloud  of  foam,  a  cascade 
of  mist  shining  in  the  sun  with  all  the  col- 
ors of  the  rainbow;  it  went  irresistibly  on- 
ward, triumphantly,  whispering:  "Go!  .  .  . 
Go!" 

Then  there  followed  a  great  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  hum  of  insects  and  the  dull  clatter 
of  falling  acorns. 

"Forever!  .  .  ."  whispered  Janina. 

She  arose  and  started  back  toward  the 
station.  She  walked  slowly,  looking  about  her 
with  fond,  lingering  gaze  upon  the  trees,  the 
woodpaths,  and  the  hillsides. 

Then  she  began  to  think  of  the  new  exist- 
ence before  her.  There  slowly  arose  in  her 
soul  a  certain  self-conscious  power  and  increas- 
ing courage. 

When  she  spied  her  father  on  the  station 
platform,  not  so  much  as  a  tremor  disturbed 
her.  Already  there  loomed  between  them 
that  new  world  which  already  lured  her. 


The  Comedienne  49 

She  even  went  to  the  station-master's  office 
for  a  ticket.  She  stood  before  the  window  and 
asked  for  it  in  a  loud  voice.  Orlowski  (for  he 
sold  the  tickets  himself)  raised  his  head  with  a 
violent  start  and  something  like  a  red  shadow 
passed  over  his  face,  but  he  did  not  utter  a 
word.  He  calmly  handed  her  her  change  and 
stared  at  her  coldly,  stroking  his  beard. 

On  leaving,  she  turned  her  head  and  met 
his  burning  gaze.  He  started  violently  back 
from  the  window  and  swore  aloud,  while  she 
went  on,  only  somehow  she  went  more  slowly 
and  her  legs  trembled  under  her.  That  gleam 
of  his  eyes,  as  though  bloody  with  tears, 
struck  deep  into  her  heart. 

The  train  arrived  and  she  got  on.  From  the 
window  of  the  car  she  still  kept  gazing  at  the 
station.  Krenska  waved  to  her  with  a  hand- 
kerchief from  the  house  and  pretended  she 
was  wiping  away  tears. 

Orlowski,  in  a  red  cap  and  immaculately 
white  gloves,  paced  up  and  down  the  platform 
with  a  stiff  official  air  and  did  not  glance  even 
once  in  her  direction. 

The  bell  rang  and  the  train  pulled  out. 

The  telegrapher  was  bowing  his  farewell  to 
her,  but  she  did  not  see  him;  she  saw  only  how 


50  The  Comedienne 

her  father  slowly  turned  about  and  entered 
the  office. 

"Forever!  .  .  . "  she  whispered. 

Orlowski  came  in  for  supper  at  the  usual 
hour. 

Krenska,  in  spite  of  her  joy  at  Janina's 
departure,  was  uneasy;  she  glanced  into  his 
eyes  with  a  feeling  of  fear,  walked  about  even 
more  silently  than  usual,  and  was  humbler 
and  smaller  than  ever  before. 

Orlowski  seemed  to  be  wrestling  with  him- 
self, for  he  did  not  burst  forth  in  curses  and  did 
not  even  mention  Janina. 

On  the  following  day  only  he  locked  Janina's 
room  and  put  the  key  away  in  his  desk. 

He  did  not  sleep  that  night;  his  eyes  were 
sunken  and  his  face  deathly  pale.  Krenska 
heard  him  walking  up  and  down  his  room  all 
night,  but  on  the  following  day  he  was  at  work 
as  usual. 

At  dinner  Krenska  plucked  up  courage  to 
speak  to  him  about  something. 

"Aha  .  .  .  I  have  still  to  settle  with  you! " 
he  said. 

Krenska  grew  pale.  She  began  to  speak  to 
him  about  Janina,  about  her  sympathy  for  her, 


The  Comedienne  51 

how  she  had  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  leaving, 
how  earnestly  she  had  begged  her. 

"You're  a  fool!"  he  hurled  at  her.  "She 
left  because  she  wanted  to.  ...  Let  her 
break  her  neck,  if  she  wants  to!" 

Krenska  began  to  commiserate  his  loneliness. 

"A  cur!"  he  snarled,  spitting  beside  him 
in  scorn.  "You,  madame,  can  leave  to-day. 
I  will  pay  you  what  is  due  you  and  then  get 
out  of  this  house  as  fast  as  you  can  go,  or  I 
swear  to  God  I'll  have  my  workmen  throw  you 
out!  If  I  am  to  be  alone  I'll  be  entirely  alone 
.  .  .  without  any  guardians!  A  cur!" 

Banging  his  glass  against  the  table  with  such 
force  that  it  flew  into  splinters,  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  little  garden  theater  was  beginning  to 
awaken. 

The  curtain  arose  with  a  creaking  sound 
and  there  appeared  a  barefooted  and  dis- 
heveled boy,  clad  only  in  a  smock,  who  began 
to  sweep  the  temple  of  art.  The  dust  floated 
out  in  large  clouds  on  the  garden,  settling  on 
the  red  cloth  coverings  of  the  chairs  and  on 
the  leaves  of  a  few  consumptive  chestnut 
trees. 

The  waiters  and  servants  of  the  restaurant 
began  to  put  things  to  order  under  the  large 
veranda.  One  could  hear  the  clatter  of  washed 
glasses,  the  beating  of  rugs,  the  moving  of 
chairs  and  the  subdued  whispers  of  the  buffet- 
tender  who  arranged  with  a  certain  unction  her 
rows  of  bottles,  platters  containing  sandwiches, 
and  huge  bouquets  a  la  Makart,  resembling 
dried  brooms.  The  glaring  rays  of  the  sun 
peered  in  at  the  sides  of  the  garden  and  a 
throng  of  black  sparrows  swayed  on  the 

52 


The  Comedienne  53 

branches  and  perched  on  the  chairs,  clamoring 
for  crumbs. 

The  clock  over  the  buffet  was  slowly  and 
solemnly  striking  the  hour  of  ten,  when  a  tall 
slim  boy  rushed  in  on  the  veranda ;  a  torn  cap 
was  perched  on  the  top  of  his  touseled  red  hair, 
his  freckled  face  wore  a  mischievous  smile,  and 
his  nose  was  upturned.  He  ran  straight  to 
the  buffet. 

"Be  careful,  Wicek,  or  you'll  lose  your 
shoes!"  .  .  .  called  the  barmaid. 

"I  don't  care;  I'll  get  them  remodeled!"  he 
retorted  jovially,  gazing  down  at  his  shoes 
which  clung  miraculously  to  his  feet  despite  the 
fact  that  they  were  minus  both  soles  and  tops. 

"  Please,  miss,  let  me  have  a  thimbleful  of 
beer!"  he  cried  bowing  ostentatiously. 

"Have  you  the  price?"  asked  the  barmaid, 
extending  her  palm. 

"This  evening,  I'll  pay  you.  I  give  you 
my  word,  I'll  pay  you  for  it  without  fail,"  he 
begged. 

The  barmaid  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"O  come  on,  let  me  have  it,  miss.  .  .  .  I'll 
recommend  you  to  the  Shah  of  Persia.  .  .  . 
Such  a  broad  dame  ought  to  have  quite  a  pull 
with  him.  ." 


54  The  Comedienne 

The  waiters  burst  out  laughing,  while  the 
barmaid  banged  her  metal  tray  against  the 
counter. 

"Wicek!"  called  someone  from  the  en- 
trance. 

"At  your  service,  Mr.  Manager." 

"Are  they  all  here  for  the  rehearsal?" 

1  'Oh !  They'll  all  be  here  without  fail ! "  he 
answered,  laughing  roguishly. 

"Did  you  notify  them?  .  .  .  Did  you  go 
to  them  with  the  circular?" 

"Yes,  they  all  signed  it." 

"Did  you  take  the  play-bill  to  the  di- 
rector?" 

"The  director  was  still  behind  the  scenes: 
he  was  lying  in  bed  and  gazing  at  his  toes." 

"You  should  have  given  it  to  his  wife." 

"But  Mrs.  Directress  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
tussle  with  her  children;  it  was  a  little  too 
noisy  there." 

"You  will  go  with  this  letter  to  Comely 
Street.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  where  it  is?" 

"A  few  times  over,  'She's  quite  a  respect- 
able dame,'  as  a  certain  man  in  the  front  row 
said  of  Miss  Nicolette  the  other  day. " 

"You  will  take  this,  wait  for  an  answer,  and 
come  right  back." 


The  Comedienne  55 

"But  Mr.  Manager,  will  I  get  something 
for  going?" 

"Didn't  I  give  you  something  on  account 
only  last  night?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  only  a  copper!  I  spent  it  for 
beer  and  sardines,  paid  the  balance  of  my  rent, 
gave  my  shoemaker  a  deposit  for  a  new  pair 
of  shoes,  and  now  I'm  dead  broke!" 

"You're  a  monkey!    Here,  take  this.  .  .  ." 

"Blessed  are  the  hands  that  dispense  forty- 
cent  pieces!"  he  cried  with  a  comical  grimace, 
shuffled  his  shoes,  and  ran  out. 

"Set  the  stage  for  the  rehearsal!"  called 
the  manager,  seating  himself  on  the  veranda. 

The  members  of  the  company  assembled 
slowly.  They  greeted  each  other  in  silence 
and  scattered  over  the  garden. 

"Dobek,"  called  the  stage-manager  to  a 
tall  man  who  was  making  straight  for  the 
buffet.  ' '  You  guzzle  from  morn  till  night,  and 
at  the  rehearsals  I  cannot  hear  a  word  you 
say.  .  .  .  Your  prompting  isn't  worth  a 
bean!" 

"Mr.  Manager,  I  had  a  bad  dream  that  ran 
something  like  this :  Night  ...  a  well  ...  I 
stumbled  and  fell  into  it  ...  I  was  frozen 
stiff  with  fear  ...  I  called  for  help  ...  no 


56  The  Comedienne 

help  was  near  .  .  .  splash !  .  .  .  and  I  was  up 
to  my  neck  in  water.  .  .  .  Brr!  ...  I  still 
feel  so  cold  that  nothing  will  warm  me." 

"Oh,  hang  your  dreams!  You  drink  from 
morn  till  night." 

" That's  because  I  can't  drink  like  others: 
from  night  till  morn.  Brr!  I  feel  so  beastly 
chilled!" 

"I'll  order  some  hot  tea  for  you " 

"Thank  you,  I'm  quite  well  Mr.  Topolski, 
and  use  herbs  only  when  I'm  sick.  Must,  the 
extracted  juice,  the  constituent  of  rye,  that's 
the  only  stuff  that  is  worthy  of  the  complete 
man  that  I  have  the  honor  to  consider  myself, 
Mr.  Manager." 

The  director  entered  and  Dobek  went  to 
the  bar. 

"Did  you  assign  all  the  r61es  of  Nitouche?" 
the  director  asked. 

"Not  quite,"  answered  Topolski,  "those 
women  .  .  .  there  are  three  candidates  for 
Nitouche." 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Director!"  called  one 
of  the  pillars  of  the  theater,  Majkowska,  a 
handsome  actress  dressed  in  a  light  gown,  a 
silken  wrap,  and  a  white  hat  with  a  big  ostrich 
feather.  She  was  all  rosy  from  a  good  night's 


The  Comedienne  57 

sleep  and  from  an  invisible  layer  of  rouge. 
She  had  large,  dark-blue  eyes,  full  and  car- 
mined  lips,  classical  features,  and  a  proud 
bearing.  She  played  the  principle  r61es. 

"Come  here  a  minute,  Mr.  Director  .  .  . 
there  is  a  little  matter  I  would  like  to  speak 
to  you  about." 

"Always  at  your  service,  madame.  Per- 
haps you  need  some  money?"  ventured  the 
director  with  a  troubled  mien. 

"For  the  present  .  .  .  no.  What  will  you 
have  to  drink,  Mr.  Director?" 

"Ho!  Ho!  Somebody's  blood  is  going  to 
be  shed! "  he  cried  with  a  comical  gesture. 

"I  asked  what  will  you  drink,  Mr.  Direc- 
tor?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'd  take  a  glass  of 
cognac,  but  ..." 

"You're  afraid  of  your  wife?  She  ,£oes  not 
appear  in  Nitouche,  does  she?" 

"No,  but  ..." 

"Waiter!  Two  cognacs  and  sandwiches. 
.  .  .  You  will  give  the  r61e  of  Nitouche  to 
Nicolette,  will  you  not,  Mr.  Director?  Please 
do  so,  for  I  have  a  good  reason  for  asking  it. 
Remember,  Mr.  Cabinski,  that  I  never  ask  for 
a  thing  in  vain,  and  do  this  for  me  ..." 


58  The  Comedienne 

"That's  already  the  fourth  candidate  for 
the  part!  .  .  .  God!  all  that  I  have  to  stand 
because  of  these  women!" 

"Which  of  them  wants  this  part?" 

"Well,  Kaczkowska,  my  wife,  Mimi,  and 
now,  Nicolette.  .  .  . " 

"Waiter!  Two  more  cognacs,"  she  called, 
rapping  on  the  tray  with  her  glass.  "You 
will  give  the  part  to  Nicolette,  Mr.  Director, 
I  know  for  a  certainty  that  she  will  not  accept 
it,  for  with  her  wooden  voice  she  could  dance, 
but  not  sing.  But  you  see,  Mr.  Director,  this 
is  the  very  reason  for  giving  it  to  her." 

"Well  .  .  .  not  to  mention  my  own  wife, 
Mimi  and  Kaczkowska  will  tear  off  my  head 
if  I  do!" 

1 '  You'll  not  lose  much  by  that !  I'll  explain 
the  matter  to  them.  We  will  have  a  splendid 
farce,  for  you  see  that  gentleman  friend  of  hers 
will  be  present  at  to-day's  rehearsal.  Yester- 
day she  boasted  to  him  that  you  had  her  in 
mind  when  you  announced  in  the  papers  that 
the  r61e  of  Nitouche  will  be  played  by  the 
beautiful  and  dashing  Mme.  X.  X." 

Cabinski  began  to  laugh  quietly. 

1 '  Only  don't  breathe  a  word  about  it.  You'll 
see  what  will  happen.  Before  him  she  will 


The  Comedienne  59 

pretend  to  accept  the  part  to  show  off.  Halt 
will  immediately  begin  to  rehearse  her  and  will 
make  a  fool  of  her  before  everyone.  You  will 
then  take  away  her  part  and  give  it  to  whom- 
ever you  like." 

"You  women  are  terrible  in  your  malice." 
"Bah,  therein  lies  our  strength." 
They  went  out  into  the  garden  hall  where 
several  members  of  the  company  were  already 
waiting  for  the  rehearsal  to  begin.     They  sat 
about  on  chairs  in  little  groups  laughing,  jok- 
ing, telling  tales,  and  complaining  while  the 
tuning  of  the  orchestra  furnished  an  accom- 
paniment to  the  buzz  of  voices. 

On  the  veranda  an  increasing  number  of 
guests  was  assembling  and  the  hum  of  voices, 
the  clatter  of  plates  and  the  noisy  shifting 
of  chairs  grew  ever  louder.  The  smoke  of 
cigarettes  ascended  in  clouds  to  the  iron  roof 
beams. 

Janina  Orlowska  entered.     She  sat  down  at 
one  of  the  tables  and  inquired  of  the  waiter: 
"  Can  you  tell  me  if  the  director  of  the  theater 
has  already  arrived?" 
4 'There  he  is!" 
"Which  one  of  them." 
"What  will  you  have,  madame?" 


60  The  Comedienne 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  which  of  those  gentle- 
men is  Mr.  Cabinski?" 

"A  seven!  .  .  .  four  whiskies!"  someone 
called  to  the  waiter  from  a  nearby  table. 

"Just  a  minute,  just  a  minute!" 

"Beer!"  came  another  voice. 

"Which  of  those  gentlemen  is  the  director? " 
patiently  asked  Janina  for  the  second  time. 

"I  will  serve  you  in  a  minute,  madam!" 
said  the  waiter  bowing  on  all  sides. 

To  Janina  it  seemed  that  they  were  all  star- 
ing at  her  and  that  the  waiters,  as  they  passed 
with  their  hands  full  of  beer-glasses  and 
plates,  cast  such  strange  glances  that  she 
blushed  in  spite  of  herself. 

Presently  the  waiter  returned,  bringing  the 
coffee  she  had  ordered. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  the  director,  madame?" 

"Yes." 

"He  is  sitting  there  in  the  first  row  of  seats. 
That  short  man  in  a  white  vest  .  .  .  there! 
Do  you  see  him?" 

"I  do.     Thank  you!" 

"Shall  I  tell  him  you  wish  to  speak  to 
him?" 

"No.     Anyway  he  seems  to  be  busy." 

"He  is  only  chatting." 


The  Comedienne  61 

"And  who  are  those  gentlemen  with  whom 
he  is  talking?" 

"They  are  also  members  of  our  company — 
actors." 

She  paid  for  the  coffee,  giving  the  waiter  a 
ruble.  He  fumbled  about  a  long  time,  as 
though  looking  for  change,  but,  seeing  that 
she  was  gazing  in  another  direction,  he  bowed 
and  thanked  her. 

Having  finished  her  coffee,  Janina  went  into 
the  hall.  She  passed  by  the  director  and  took 
a  cursory  look  at  him.  All  that  she  saw  was  a 
large,  pale,  anaemic  face,  covered  with  grayish 
splotches. 

A  few  actors  standing  near  him  impressed 
her  as  handsome  people.  She  noticed  in  their 
gestures,  their  smooth  shaven  faces,  their  easy, 
smiling  airs  something  so  superior  to  the 
men  whom  she  had  hitherto  known,  that 
she  listened  to  their  conversation  with  rapt 
attention. 

The  uncurtained  stage,  wrapt  in  darkness, 
drew  her  with  its  hidden  mystery. 

For  the  first  time  Janina  saw  the  theater 
at  close  range  and  the  actors  off  stage.  The 
theater  seemed  to  her  like  a  Grecian  temple 
and  those  people,  whose  profiles  she  had  before 


62  The  Comedienne 

her,  and  whose  eloquent  voices  sounded  in 
her  ears,  seemed  like  true  priests  of  art. 

She  was  regarding  everything  about  her 
with  interest,  when  she  suddenly  noticed  that 
the  waiter  who  had  served  her  was  whispering 
something  to  the  director  and  pointing  to  her 
with  a  slight  gesture. 

There  ran  through  Janina  a  tremor  of  fear, 
strange  and  depressing.  She  did  not  look  up 
again,  but  felt  that  someone  was  approaching, 
that  someone's  glances  were  resting  on  her  head 
and  encircling  her  figure. 

She  was  still  at  a  loss  how  to  begin  and  what 
to  say,  but  felt  that  she  must  speak. 

She  arose  when  she  noticed  Cabinski  stand- 
ing before  her. 

"I  am  Mr.  Cabinski,  the  director." 

She  stood  there  unable  to  utter  a  word. 

"You  deigned  to  ask  for  me,  madame?"  he 
queried  with  a  courteous  bow,  signifying  that 
he  was  ready  to  listen  to  her. 

"Yes  .  .  .  if  you  please  .  .  .  Mr.  Director. 
I  wished  to  ask  you  .  .  .  perhaps  you  could," 
she  stuttered,  unable  for  the  moment  to  find 
the  right  words  to  express  what  she  wished  to 
say. 

"Pray  rest  a  little, madame, and  calm  your- 


The  Comedienne  63 

self.  Is  it  something  very  important?"  he 
whispered,  bending  toward  her  and  at  the 
same  time  winking  significantly  to  the  actors 
who  were  looking  on. 

"Oh,  it  is  very  important!"  she  answered, 
meeting  his  gaze.  "I  wish  to  ask  you,  Mr. 
Director,  if  you  would  accept  me  as  a  member 
of  your  company. " 

This  last  sentence  she  uttered  quickly  as 
though  fearing  that  her  courage  and  voice 
might  fail  her  ere  it  was  spoken. 

"Ah!  ...  is  that  all?  .  .  .  You  wish  to 
be  engaged,  miss?"  He  stiffened  suddenly, 
studying  her  with  a  critical  gaze. 

"I  journeyed  here  especially  for  that  pur- 
pose. You  will  not  refuse  me,  Mr.  Director, 
will  you?" 

"With  whom  did  you  appear  before?" 

"Pardon me,  but  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"With  what  company?  .  .  .     Where?" 

"I  have  never  before  appeared  in  the 
theater.  I  came  here  straight  from  the  coun- 
try for  the  express  purpose  of  joining  it." 

"You  have  never  appeared  before?  .  .  . 
Then,  I  have  no  place  for  you! "  and  he  turned 
to  go. 

Janina  was  seized  with  a  desperate  fear 


64  The  Comedienne 

that  her  quest  would  fail,  so  with  courage  and 
a  tone  of  strong  entreaty  in  her  voice  she 
began  to  speak  hurriedly: 

' '  Mr.  Director !  I  j  ourney ed  here  especially 
to  join  your  company.  I  love  the  theater  so 
ardently  that  I  cannot  live  without  it!  .  .  . 
Do  not  refuse  me!  I  do  not  know  anyone 
here  in  Warsaw.  I  came  to  you  because  I 
had  read  so  much  about  you  in  the  papers.  I 
feel  that  I  could  play  ...  I  have  memorized 
so  many  roles!  .  .  .  You  will  see,  Mr.  Di- 
rector ...  if  you  only  let  me  appear  .  .  . 
you  will  see!" 

Cabinski  was  silent. 

"Or  perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  have  me 
call  to-morrow?  ...  I  can  wait  a  few  days,  if 
you  wish,"  she  added,  seeing  that  he  did  not 
answer,  but  was  observing  her  intently. 

Her  voice  trembled  with  entreaty;  it  modu- 
lated with  ease  and  there  was  so  much  origi- 
nality and  warmth  in  her  tone  that  Cabinski 
listened  to  her  with  pleasure. 

"Now  I  have  no  time, but  after  the  rehearsal 
we  can  discuss  the  matter  more  thoroughly," 
he  said. 

She  wanted  impulsively  to  press  his  hand 
and  thank  him  for  the  promise,  but  her  cour- 


The  Comedienne  65 

age  failed  her,  for  she  noticed  that  an  increas- 
ing number  of  people  were  curiously  observing 
them. 

"Hey  there,  Cabinski!" 

"Man  alive!" 

"Director!  What's  that  ...  a  rendez- 
vous? In  broad  daylight,  before  the  eyes  of 
all,  and  scarcely  three  flights  away  from  Pepa?  " 

Such  were  the  bantering  remarks  hurled  at 
him  from  every  direction  after  his  parting 
with  Janina. 

"Who  is  the  charmer?" 

"Director,  it's  rather  careless  to  carry  on 
such  an  affair  right  there  in  the  limelight." 

"Ha!  ha!  now  we've  got  you!  .  .  .  You 
posed  as  a  flawless  crystal,  my  muddy  amber ! " 
called  one  of  the  company,  a  fleshless  indi- 
vidual with  habitually  contorted  lips  that 
seemed  to  spew  gall  and  malice. 

"  Go  to  the  devil,  my  dear !  This  is  the  first 
time  I  saw  her,"  retorted  Cabinski. 

' '  A  pretty  woman !    What  does  she  want? " 

"A  novice  of  some  kind  .  .  .  she's  seeking 
an  engagement." 

"Take  her,  Director.  There  are  never  too 
many  pretty  women  on  the  stage." 

"The  director  has  enough  of  those  calves." 


66  The  Comedienne 

"Don't  fear,  Wladek,  they  do  not  encum- 
ber the  budget,  for  Cabinski  has  a  custom  of 
failing  to  pay  his  actors,  particularly  the  young 
and  pretty  ladies." 

Thereat  they  all  began  laughing. 

1 '  Treat  us  to  a  whiskey,  Director,  and  I  will 
tell  you  something,"  Glas  began  anew. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"That  the  manager  will  treat  us  to  an- 
other. ..." 

"My  funny  sir,  your  belly  grows  at  the  ex- 
pense of  your  wit  .  .  .  you  are  beginning  to 
prate  like  a  fool,"  remarked  Wladek. 

"Only  for  fools  .  .  ."  Glas  maliciously 
thrust  back  at  Wladek  and  retired  behind  the 
scenes. 

"John!"  came  the  voice  of  the  director's 
wife  from  the  veranda. 

Cabinski  went  out  to  meet  her. 

She  was  a  tall,  stout  woman  with  a  face 
that  still  retained  traces  of  great  beauty,  now 
carefully  preserved  with  paint ;  she  had  coarse 
features,  large  eyes,  narrow  lips,  and  a*  very 
low  forehead.  Her  dress  was  of  an  exag- 
gerated youthful  style  and  color,  so  that  from 
afar  she  gave  the  impression  of  being  a  young 
woman. 


The  Comedienne  67 

She  was  very  proud  of  her  director-husband, 
of  her  dramatic  talent,  and  of  her  children,  of 
which  she  had  four.  In  real  life  she  was  fond 
of  playing  the  role  of  a  matron  occupied  only 
with  her  home  and  the  upbringing  of  her  child- 
ren, while  in  truth  she  was  nothing  but  a  comedi- 
enne, both  in  life  and  behind  the  scenes.  On 
the  stage  she  impersonated  dramatic  mothers 
and  all  the  elder,  unhappy  women,  never  under- 
standing her  parts,  but  acting  them,  neverthe- 
less, with  fervor  and  pathos. 

She  was  a  terror  to  her  servants,  to  her  own 
children,  and  to  young  actresses  whom  she 
suspected  of  possessing  talents.  She  had  a 
shrewish  temper  which  she  masked  before 
others  with  an  exaggerated  calm  and  feigned 
weakness. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen!"  .  .  .  she 
called,  leaning  with  a  careless  attitude  on  her 
husband's  arm. 

The  company  thronged  around  her,  Maj- 
kowska  greeting  her  with  an  effusive  kiss. 

"How  charming  Madame  Directress  looks 
to-day,"  remarked  Glas. 

"Your  vision  must  have  improved,  for  the 
directress  always  looks  charming !"  interposed 
Wladekf 


68  The  Comedienne 

"How  is  your  health?  .  .  .  Yesterday 's 
performance  must  have  taxed  your  strength." 

"You  played  superbly!  .  .  .  We  all  stood 
behind  the  scenes  in  rapt  attention." 

"The  critics  were  all  weeping.  I  saw 
Zarski  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief." 

"After  sneezing  .  .  .  he  has  a  bad  catarrh," 
called  someone  from  the  side. 

"The  public  was  fascinated  and  swept  off 
its  feet  in  the  third  act  .  .  .  they  arose  in  their 
chairs." 

"That's  because  they  wanted  to  run  away 
from  such  a  treat,"  came  the  mocking  voice 
again. 

"How  many  bouquets  did  you  receive, 
Madame  Directress?" 

"Ask  the  director,  he  paid  the  bill." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Counselor,  you  are  unbearable 
to-day!"  cried  the  directress  in  a  sweet  voice, 
although  almost  pale  with  rage,  for  all  the 
actors  were  growing  red  in  the  face  in  their 
effort  to  keep  from  laughing. 

"It's  intended  as  a  kindness.  .  .  .  All  the 
rest  of  them  are  saying  pretty  things,  let  me 
say  something  sensible." 

"You  are  an  impertinent  man,  Mr.  Coun- 
selor! .  .  .  How  can  you  say  such  things?  .  .  . 


The  Comedienne  69 

Moreover,  what  do  I  care  about  the  theater! 
If  I  played  well,  I  owe  it  to  my  husband;  if  I 
played  badly  it's  the  fault  of  the  director  for 
forcing  me  to  appear  continually  in  new  roles ! 
If  I  had  my  way,  I  would  lock  myself  up  with 
my  children  and  confine  myself  to  domestic 
affairs.  .  .  .  My  God!  art  is  such  a  big  thing 
and  we  are  all,  compared  with  it,  so  small,  so 
small  that  I  tremble  with  fear  bef c*re  each  new 
performance!"  she  declaimed. 

"  Please  let  me  have  a  word  with  you  in 
private,"  called  Majkowska. 

"  Do  you  see?  .  .  .  there  is  not  even  time  to 
talk  of  art!"  she  sighed  deeply  and  departed. 

"An  old  scarecrow!" 

"An  everlasting  cow!  .  .  .  She  thinks  she 
is  an  artist!" 

"Yesterday  she  bellowed  terribly." 

"She  flung  herself  around  the  stage  as 
though  she  had  St.  Vitus1  dance!" 

"Hush!  .  .  .  according  to  her  that  is 
realism!." 

On  the  veranda  Majkowska  was  concluding 
her  conversation  with  Mrs.  Cabinska. 

"Will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honor, 
Madame  Directress?" 

"Of  course,  I'll  see  to  it  right  away." 


7°  The  Comedienne 

"It  must  be  done.  Nicolette  has  made 
herself  impossible  in  this  company.  Why,  she 
even  dares  to  criticize  your  own  playing! 
Yesterday  I  saw  her  making  disparaging 
remarks  to  that  editor,"  Majkowska  whis- 
pered. 

"What!  she  dares  to  meddle  with  me?" 

"I  never  indulge  in  gossip,  nor  do  I  want 
to  sow  hatred,  but " 

"What  did  she  say?  ...  in  the  presence 
of  the  editor,  did  you  say?  Ah,  the  vile  co- 
quette!" 

Majkowska  smothered  a  smile,  but  hastily 
replied,  "No,  I'll  not  tell  you  ...  I  do  not 
like  to  repeat  gossip ! " 

"Well,  I'll  pay  her  back  for  it!  ...  Wait, 
we'll  teach  her  a  lesson! "  hissed  the  directress. 

"Dobek,  prompter!  .  .  .  get  into  your 
box!" 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  rehearsal  com- 
mences!" 

"To  the  stage!  to  the  stage!"  was  the  cry 
that  went  up  all  over  the  hall  as  the  actors  hur- 
ried behind  the  scenes. 

"Mr.  Director!"  called  Majkowska,  "you 
can  give  the  r61e  to  Nicolette  .  .  .  your  wife 
agrees  to  it." 


The  Comedienne  71 

"  Very  well,  my  dears,  very  well.  .  .  ." 

He  went  out  on  the  veranda  where  Nicolette 
was  already  seated  with  a  young  gentleman, 
very  fastidiously  dressed. 

"  We  request  your  presence  at  the  rehearsal, 
Miss  Nicolette.  ..." 

1 '  What  are  you  rehearsing  ? ' '  asked  Nicolette. 

"Nitouche  .  .  .  why,  don't  you  know  that 
you  are  to  appear  in  the  title  role?  ...  I 
have  already  advertised  it  in  the  papers." 

Kazckowska,  who  had  at  that  moment  en- 
tered and  was  looking  at  them,  hastily  covered 
her  face  with  her  parasol,  so  as  not  to  burst 
out  laughing  at  the  comical  look  of  embarrass- 
ment on  Nicolette's  face. 

11 1  am  too  indisposed  at  present  to  take 
part  in  the  rehearsal,"  she  said,  scrutinizing 
Cabiniski  and  Kaczkowska. 

Evidently  she  suspected  some  ruse,  but 
Cabinski,  with  the  solemnest  mien  in  the 
world,  handed  her  the  role. 

"Here  is  your  part,  madame.  .  .  .  We 
begin  immediately,"  he  said,  going  away. 

"But  Mr.  Director!  my  dear  Director,  I 
pray  you,  go  on  with  the  rehearsal  without 
me!  ...  I  have  such  a  headache  that  I  doubt 
I  could  sing,"  she  pleaded. 


72  The  Comedienne 

"  It  can't  be  done.     We  begin  immediately." 

11  Oh,  please  do  sing,  Miss  Nicolette!  I'm 
crazy  to  hear  you  sing!"  begged  the  squire. 

"Director!" 

"What  is  it,  my  soprano?" 

And  the  directress  appeared,  pointing  to 
Janina  who  was  standing  behind  the  scenes. 

"A  novice,"  answered  Cabinski. 

"Are  you  going  to  engage  her?" 

"Yes,  we  need  chorus  girls.  The  sisters 
from  Prague  have  left,  for  they  made  nothing 
but  scandals." 

"She  looks  rather  homely,"  opined  Mrs. 
Cabinska. 

"But  she  has  a  very  scenic  face!  .  .  .  and 
also  a  very  nice,  though  strange  voice." 

Janina  did  not  lose  a  word  of  this  conver- 
sation, carried  on  in  an  undertone ;  she  had  also 
heard  the  chorus  of  praise  that  went  up  on  the 
directress's  appearance,,  and  later,  the  chorus 
of  derision.  She  gazed  with  a  bewildered 
look  on  that  whole  company. 

"Clear  the  stage!  clear  the  stage!" 

Those  standing  on  the  stage  hastily  moved 
back  behind  the  scenes,  for  at  the  moment  the 
entire  chorus  rushed  out  in  a  gallop :  a  throng  of 
women,  chiefly  young  women,  but  with  painted 


The  Comedienne  73 

faces,  faded  and  blighted  by  their  feverish  life. 
There  were  blondes  and  brunettes,  small  and 
tall,  thin  and  stout — a  motley  gathering  from  all 
spheres  of  life.  There  were  among  them  the 
faces  of  madonnas  with  defiant  glances,  and 
the  smooth,  round  faces,  expressionless  and 
unintelligent,  of  peasant  girls.  And  all  were 
boredly  cynical,  or,  at  least,  appeared  so. 

They  began  to  sing. 

"Halt!  Start  over  again!"  roared  the 
director  of  the  orchestra,  an  individual 
with  a  big  red  face  and  huge  mutton-chop 
whiskers. 

The  chorus  retired  and  came  back  again 
with  heavy  step,  carrying  on  a  sort  of  col- 
lective can-canade,  but  every  minute  there 
was  heard  the  sharp  bang  of  the  conductor's 
baton  against  his  desk  and  the  hoarse  yell — 
1 '  Halt !  Start  over  again ! ' '  And  swinging  his 
baton  he  would  mutter  under  his  nose,  "You 
cattle!" 

The  chorus  rehearsal  dragged  on  intermin- 
ably. The  actors,  scattered  about  in  the 
seats,  yawned  wearily  and  those  who  took  part 
in  the  evening's  performance  paced  up  and 
down  behind  the  scenes,  indifferently  waiting 
for  their  turn  to  rehearse. 


74  The  Comedienne 

In  the  men's  dressing-room  Wicek  was  shin- 
ing the  shoes  of  the  stage-manager  and  giving 
him  a  hasty  account  of  his  mission  to  Comely 
Street. 

"  Did  you  deliver  the  letter?  .  .  .  Have  you 
an  answer?" 

"I  should  smile!"  and  he  handed  Topolski 
a  long  pink  envelope. 

"Wicek!  ...  If  you  squeal  a  word  of  this 
to  anyone,  you  clown,  you  know  what  awaits 
you!" 

''That's  stale  news!  .  .  .  The  lady  said 
just  that,  too.  Only  she  added  a  ruble  to  her 
warning." 

"Maurice!"  called  Majkowska  sharply, 
appearing  at  the  door  of  the  dressing-room. 

"Wait  a  minute.  ...  I  can't  go  with 
only  one  shoe  shined,  can  I!" 

"Why  didn't  you  have  the  maid  shine 
them?" 

"The  maid  is  always  at  your  service  and  I 
can't  get  a  single  thing  from  her." 

"Well,  go  and  hire  another." 

"All  right,  but  it  will  be  for  myself  alone." 

"Nicolette,  to  the  stage!" 

"Call  her!"  cried  Cabinski  from  the  stage 
to  those  sitting  around  in  the  chairs. 


The  Comedienne  75 

''Come,  Maurice,"  whispered  Majkowska. 
"  It'll  be  worth  seeing." 

"Nicolette,  to  the  stage!"  cried  those  in 
the  chairs. 

"In  a  moment!  Here  I  am  ..."  and 
Nicolette,  with  a  sandwich  in  her  mouth  and 
a  box  of  candy  under  her  arm,  rushed  for  the 
stage  entrance  with  such  violence  that  the 
floor  creaked  under  her  steps. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  appearing 
so  late!  This  is  a  rehearsal  ...  we  are  all 
waiting,"  angrily  muttered  the  conductor  of 
the  orchestra.  . 

11 1  am  not  the  only  one  you  are  waiting  for," 
she  retorted. 

"Precisely,  we  are  waiting  only  for  you, 
madame,  and  you  know  we  have  not  come  here 
to  argue.  .  .  .  On  with  the  rehearsal !" 

"But  I  have  not  yet  learned  a  single  line. 
Let  Kaczkowska  sing  .  .  .  that  is  a  part  for 
her!" 

"The  part  was  given  to  you,  wasn't  it? 
.  .  .  Well,  then  there's  no  use  arguing!  Let 
us  begin " 

"Oh,  director!  Can't  we  postpone  it  till 
this  afternoon?  Just  now,  it  .  .  ." 

"Begin!" 


76  The  Comedienne 

"Try  it,  Miss  Nicolette  .  .  .  that  part  is 
well  adapted  to  your  voice.  ...  I  myself 
asked  the  director  to  give  it  to  you,"  encour- 
aged Mrs.  Cabinska  with  a  friendly  smile. 

Nicolette  listened,  scanning  the  faces  of  the 
whole  company,  but  they  were  all  immobile. 
Only  the  young  gentleman  smiled  amorously 
at  her  from  the  chairs. 

The  conductor  raised  his  baton,  the  orches- 
tra began  to  play,  and  the  prompter  gave  her 
the  first  words  of  her  part. 

Nicolette,  who  was  noted  for  never  being 
able  to  learn  her  r61e,  now  tripped  up  in  the 
very  first  line  and  sang  it  as  falsely  as  possible. 

They  began  over  again;  it  went  a  little 
better,  but  "Halt,"  as  they  called  the  con- 
ductor, intentionally  skipped  a  measure,  caus- 
ing her  to  make  an  awful  mess  of  it. 

A  chorus  of  laughter  arose  on  the  stage. 

"A  musical  cow!" 

"To  the  ballet  with  such  a  voice  and  such 
an  ear!" 

Nicolette,  on  the  verge  of  tears,  approached 
Cabinski. 

"I  told  you  that  I  could  not  sing  just  now. 
...  I  had  not  even  time  to  glance  at  my 
part." 


The  Comedienne  77 

"Aha,  so  you  cannot,  madame?  .  .  .  Please 
hand  me  the  role!  .  .  .  Kaczkowska  will  sing 
it." 

"I  can  sing,  but  just  now  I  am  unable  to 
...  I  don't  want  to  flunk! " 

"To  turn  the  heads  of  gentlemen,  to  make 
intrigues,  to  slander  others  before  the  press 
reporters,  to  go  gallivanting  all  about  town 
.  .  .  for  that  you  have  time!"  hissed  Mrs. 
Cabinska. 

"Oh,  go  and  mind  your  children  .  .  .  but 
don't  you  dare  to  meddle  with  my  affairs." 

"Director!     She  insults  me,  that  ..." 

"Hand  me  the  part,"  ordered  Cabinski. 
"You  can  sing  in  the  chorus,  madame,  since 
you  are  unable  to  sing  a  role." 

"Oh  no!  .  .  .  Just  for  that  I  am  going  to 
sing  it!  ...  I  don't  care  a  snap  for  these  vile 
intrigues!" 

"Who  are  you  saying  that  to?  "  cried  Cabin- 
ska,  jumping  up  from  her  chair. 

"Well,  to  you,  if  you  like." 

"You  are  dismissed  from  the  company!" 
interposed  Cabinski. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil,  all  of  you!"  shouted 
Nicolette  throwing  the  r61e  into  Cabinski 's 
face.  "It's  known  long  ago  that  in  your 


78  The  Comedienne 

company  there  is  no  place  for  a  respectable 
woman  !'V 

"Get  out  of  here,  you  adventuress!" 

Cabinska  sprang  at  her,  but  halfway  across 
she  stopped  short  and  burst  into  tears. 

"On  the  right  there  is  a  sofa  ...  it  will 
be  more  comfortable  for  you  to  faint  on, 
Madame  Directress!"  called  someone  from 
the  chairs. 

The  company  smiled  with  set  faces. 

"Pepa!  .  .  .  my  wife!  .  .  .  calm  yourself. 
.  .  .  For  God's  sake  can't  we  ever  do  any 
thing  without  these  continual  rumpuses!" 

"Am  I  the  cause  of  it?" 

"I'm  not  blaming  you  .  .  .  but  you  could 
at  least  calm  yourself  .  .  .  there's  no  reason 
for  you  acting  this  way!" 

"So  that  is  the  kind  of  husband  and  father 
you  are!  .  .  .  that  is  the  kind  of  director!" 
she  shouted  in  fury. 

"Hold  out  only  one  hour,  and  you'll  go 
straight  to  heaven,  you  martyr!"  someone 
called  to  Cabinski. 

"Sir,"  queried  a  spectator,  holding  up  one 
of  the  actors  by  the  button  of  his  coat.  "Sir, 
are  they  playing  something  new?" 

"First  of  all,  that  is  a  button  from  my  coat 


The  Comedienne  79 

which  you  have  pulled  off!"  cried  the  actor, 
"and  that,  my  dear  sir,  is  the  first  act  of  a 
moving  farce  entitled  Behind  the  Scenes;  it  is 
given  each  day  with  great  success." 

The  stage  became  deserted.  The  orchestra 
was  tuning  its  instruments;  "Halt"  went  for 
a  drink  of  beer,  and  the  company  scattered 
about  the  garden.  Cabinski,  holding  his  head 
with  both  hands,  paced  up  and  down  the  stage 
like  a  madman,  complaining  half  in  anger, 
half  in  commiseration,  for  his  wife  was  still 
quietly  continuing  her  spasms. 

"Oh  what  people!  What  people!  What 
scandals!" 

Janina,  startled  by  the  brutality  of  the 
spectacle  she  had  just  witnessed,  retreated 
behind  the  farthermost  scene.  She  felt  that 
it  was  now  impossible  to  speak  with  the 
director. 

"So  these  are  artists!  .  .  .  this  is  the 
theater!"  she  was  thinking. 

The  rehearsal,  after  a  short  intermission, 
began  anew — with  Kaczkowska  as  the  titular 
heroine. 

Majkowska  was  in  a  splendid  humor,  being 
so  successfully  rid  of  her  rival. 

The   director,    after   his   wife's   departure, 


8o  The  Comedienne 

rubbed  his  hands  in  glee  and  motioned  to 
Topolski.  They  went  out  to  the  buffet  for  a 
drink.  Without  a  doubt  he  must  have  made 
something  on  his  break  with  Nicolette. 

Stanislawski,  the  oldest  member  of  the 
company,  walked  up  and  down  the  dressing- 
room,  spitting  with  disgust  and  muttering  to 
Mirowska,  who  was  sitting  on  a  chair  with 
her  feet  curled  up  under  her. 

"Scandals  .  .  .  nothing  but  scandals!  .  .  . 
how  can  we  expect  to  have  any  success!  ..." 

Mirowska  nodded  her  assent,  smiling  faintly 
and  keeping  steadily  on  with  the  crocheting  of 
a  handkerchief. 

After  the  rehearsal  Janina  boldly  approached 
Cabinski. 

"Mr.  Director — "  she  began. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  miss?  .  .  .  I  will  accept  you. 
Come  to-morrow  before  the  performance,  and 
we  will  talk  it  over.  I  have  not  the  time 


now." 


"Thank  you  ever  so  much,  sir!"  she  an- 
swered overjoyed. 

"Have  you  any  kind  of  a  voice?" 

"A  voice?" 

"Do  you  sing?" 

"At  home  I  used  to  sing  a  little  .  .  .  but 


The  Comedienne  81 

. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  a  stage  voice  .  .  .  how- 
ever, I  .  .   ." 

"Only  come  a  little  earlier  and  we  shall  try 
you  out.  ...  I  shall  speak  to  the  musical 
director.'' 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Lazienki  Park  in  Warsaw  was  athrob 
with  the  breath  of  spring.  The  roses  bloomed 
and  the  jasmines  diffused  their  heavy  odor 
through  the  park.  It  was  so  quiet  and  lovely 
there,  that  Janina  sat  for  a  few  hours  near  the 
lake,  forgetting  everything. 

The  swans  with  spreading  wings,  like  white 
cloudlets,  floated  over  the  azure  bosom  of  the 
water;  the  marble  statues  glowed  with  im- 
maculate whiteness;  the  fresh  and  luxuriant 
foliage  was  like  a  vast  sea  of  emerald  steeped 
in  golden  sunlight;  the  red  blossoms  of  the 
chestnut  trees  floated  down  on  the  ground,  the 
waters  and  the  lawns,  and  flickered  like  rosy 
sparks  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 

The  noisy  hum  of  the  city  reached  here  in  a 
subdued  echo  and  lost  itself  among  the  bushes. 

Janina  had  come  here  straight  from  the 
theater.  What  she  had  seen  disquieted  her; 
she  felt  within  herself  a  dull  pain  of  disillusion- 
ment and  hesitation. 

82 


The  Comedienne  83 

She  did  not  wish  to  remember  anything,  but 
only  kept  repeating  to  herself,  "I'm  in  the 
theater!  .  .  .  I'm  in  the  theater !" 

There  passed  before  her  mind  the  figures 
of  her  future  companions.  Instinctively  she 
felt  that  in  those  faces  there  was  nothing 
friendly,  only,  envy  and  hypocrisy. 

Presently  she  proceeded  to  her  hotel  at 
which  she  had  stopped  on  the  advice  of  her 
fellow- travelers,  on  the  train  to  Warsaw.  It 
was  a  cheap  affair  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
and  frequented  chiefly  by  petty  farm  officials 
and  the  actors  of  small  provincial  theaters. 

She  was  given  a  small  room  on  the  third 
floor,  with  a  window  looking  out  upon  the  red 
roofs  of  the  old  city,  extending  in  crooked 
and  irregular  lines.  It  was  such  an  ugly  view 
that,  on  returning  from  Lazienki,  with  her 
eyes  and  soul  still  full  of  the  green  of  the 
verdure  and  the  golden  sunlight,  she  immedi- 
ately pulled  down  the  shades  and  began  to 
unpack  her  trunk. 

She  had  not  yet  had  time  to  think  of  her 
father.  The  city,  the  hubbub  and  bustle 
which  engulfed  her  immediately  upon  her 
arrival  at  the  station,  the  weariness  caused 
by  the  journey  and  by  the  last  moments  at 


84  The  Comedienne 

Bukowiec,  and  afterwards  those  feverish  hours 
at  the  theater,  the  rehearsal,  the  park,  the 
waiting  for  evening  and  her  own  coming 
rehearsal — all  this  had  so  completely  absorbed 
her  that  she  forgot  almost  entirely  about 
home. 

She  dressed  carefully,  for  she  wished  to 
appear  at  her  best. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  garden-theater  the 
lights  were  already  turned  on  and  the  public 
was  beginning  to  assemble.  She  went  boldly 
behind  the  scenes.  The  stage  hands  were 
arranging  the  decorations;  of  the  company, 
no  one  was  as  yet  present. 

In  the  dressing-rooms  the  gaslights  flared 
brightly.  The  costumer  was  preparing  gaudy 
costumes,  and  the  make-up  man  sat  whistling 
and  combing  a  wig  with  long,  bright  tresses. 

In  the  ladies'  dressing-room  an  old  woman 
was  standing  under  the  gaslight,  sewing 
something. 

Janina  explored  all  the  corners,  examining 
everything,  emboldened  by  the  fact  that  no 
one  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  her.  The 
walls  behind  the  huge  canvas  decorations  were 
dirty,  with  their  plaster  broken  off,  and 
covered  with  sticky  dampness.  The  floors, 


The  Comedienne  85 

the  moldings,  the  shabby  furniture  and 
decorations,  that  seemed  to  her  like  beggarly 
rags,  were  thick  with  dust  and  filth.  The 
odor  of  mastic,  cosmetics,  and  burnt  hair, 
floating  over  the  stage,  nauseated  her. 

She  viewed  the  canvas  scenes  of  what  were 
supposed  to  be  magnificient  castles,  the 
chambers  of  the  kings  of  operetta,  gorgeous 
landscapes — and  beheld  at  close  view  a  cheap 
smear  of  colors  which  could  satisfy  only  the 
grossest  of  senses  and  then  only  from  a  dis- 
tance. In  the  storeroom  she  saw  card- 
board crowns;  the  satin  robes  were  poor 
imitations,  the  velvets  were  cheap  taffeta,  the 
ermines  were  painted  cambric,  the  gold  was 
gilded  paper,  the  armor  was  of  cardboard,  the 
swords  and  daggers  of  wood. 

She  gazed  at  that  future  kingdom  of  hers 
as  though  wishing  to  convince  herself  of  its 
worthiness.  And,  though  it  was  sham,  tinsel, 
lies,  and  comedy  she  tried  to  see  above  it  all 
something  infinitely  higher — art. 

The  stage  was  not  yet  set,  and  was  only 
dimly  lighted.  Janina  crossed  it  a  few  times 
with  the  stately  stride  of  a  heroine,  then  again, 
with  the  light,  graceful  airiness  of  an  ingenue, 
or  with  the  quick  feverish  step  of  a  woman  who 


86  •  The  Comedienne 

carries  with  her  death  and  destruction;  and 
with  each  new  impersonation,  her  face  as- 
sumed the  appropriate  expression,  her  eyes 
glowed  with  the  flame  of  the  Eumenides,  with 
storm,  desire,  conflict,  or,  kindling  with  the 
mood  of  love,  longing,  anxiety  they  shone 
like  stars  on  a  spring  night. 

She  passed  through  these  various  trans- 
formations unconsciously,  impelled  by  the 
memory  of  the  plays  and  roles  she  had  read, 
and  so  great  was  her  abstraction,  that  she 
forgot  about  everything  and  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  stagehands,  who  were  moving 
about  her. 

"My  Al  used  to  act  the  same  way  .  .  .  the 
same  way ! "  said  a  quiet  voice  from  behind  the 
scenes  near  the  ladies'  dressing-room. 

Janina  paused  in  confusion.  She  saw 
standing  there  a  middle-aged  woman  of  me- 
dium height,  with  a  withered  face  and  stern 
demeanor. 

"You  have  joined  our  company,  miss?" 
she  inquired  with  a  sharp  energetic  voice, 
piercing  Janina  with  her  round,  owl-like  eyes. 

"Not  quite.  ...  I  am  about  to  have  a 
trial  with  the  musical  director.  Ah,  yes,  Mr. 
Cabinski  even  said  that  it  was  to  take  place 


The  Comedienne  87 

before  the  performance!  ..."  she  cried, 
recalling  what  he  had  told  her. 

"Aha!  with  that  drunkard  .  .  ." 

Janina  glanced  at  her,  surprised. 

"  Have  you  set  your  heart  on  being  with  us, 
miss?" 

"In  the  theater?  .  .  .  yes!  ...  I  jour- 
neyed here  for  that  very  purpose." 

"From  whence?"  asked  the  elderly  woman 
abruptly. 

"From  home,"  answered  Janina,  but  more 
quietly  and  with  a  certain  hesitation. 

"Ah  ...  I  see  .  .  .  you  are  entirely  new 
to  the  profession!  .  .  .  Well,  well!  that  is 
curious!  ..." 

"Why?  .  .  .  why  should  it  be  so  strange 
for  one  who  loves  the  theater  to  try  to  join 
it?  ..." 

"Oh,  that's  what  all  of  them  say!  .  .  . 
while  in  truth,  each  of  them  runs  away  either 
from  something  ...  or  for  something.  ..." 

Janina  was  conscious  of  an  accent  of  hidden 
malice  in  her  voice.  "Do  you  know,  madam, 
how  soon  the  musical  director  will  arrive?" 
she  asked. 

' '  I  don't ! ' '  snapped  back  the  elderly  woman, 
and  walked  away. 


88  The  Comedienne 

Janina  moved  back  a  little,  for  just  then 
the  workmen  were  spreading  a  huge  waxed 
canvas  over  the  stage.  She  was  gazing  at  this 
absent-mindedly,  when  the  elderly  woman 
reappeared  and  addressed  her  in  a  milder  tone, 
"I  will  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,  miss.  .  .  . 
It  is  necessary  for  you  to  win  over  the  musical 
director." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  do  it?  " 

"Have  you  money? " 

"I  have,  but 

"If  you  will  listen  to  me,  I  will  advise  you." 

"Certainly." 

"You  must  get  him  a  little  drunk,  then  the 
rehearsal  will  come  off  splendidly." 

Janina  glanced  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Ha !  ha ! "  laughed  the  other  quietly.  "  Ha ! 
ha!  she  is  a  real  moon-calf!" 

After  a  moment  she  whispered,  "Let  us  go 
to  the  dressing-room.  I  will  enlighten  you  a 
little  .  .  ." 

She  pulled  Janina  after  her,  and  afterwards, 
busying  herself  with  pinning  a  dress  on  a 
mannikin,  she  remarked,  "We  must  get 
acquainted." 

"Tell  me,  madam,  how  about  that  musical 
director?"  asked  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  89 

"It's  necessary  to  buy  him  some  cognac. 
Yes ! ' '  she  added  after  amoment, ' '  Cognac,  beer, 
and  sandwiches  will,  perhaps,  be  sufficient." 

"How  much  would  that  cost? " 

1 1 1  think  that  for  three  rubles  you  can  give 
him  a  decent  treat.  Let  me  have  the  money 
and  I  will  order  everything  for  you.  I  had 
better  go  right  away." 

Janina  gave  her  the  money. 

Sowinska  left  and  in  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  returned,  breathless. 

"Well,  everything  is  settled!  Come  along, 
miss,  the  director  is  waiting." 

Behind  the  restaurant  hall  there  was  a  room 
with  a  piano.  "Halt,"  flushed  and  sleepy, 
was  already  waiting  there. 

"Cabinski  spoke  to  me  about  you,  miss!" 
he  began.     "What  can  you  sing?  .  .  .  Whew! 
how  warm  I  feel !  .  .  .     Perhaps  you  will  raise 
the  window?"  he  said,  turning  to  Sowinska. 

Janina  felt  disturbed  by  his  hoarse  voice  and 
his  inflamed,  drunken  face,  but  she  sat  down  to 
the  piano,  wondering  what  she  should  select 
to  sing. 

"Ah!  you  also  play,  miss?  .  .  "he  queried 
in  great  surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  began  playing  the 


9°  The  Comedienne 

introduction  to  some  song,  without  seeing 
the  signs  that  Sowinska  was  making  to  her. 

"Please  sing  something  for  me,"  he  said, 
"I  want  to  hear  only  your  voice.  ...  Or  per- 
haps you  could  sing  some  solo  part?  " 

"Mr.  Director  ...  I  feel  that  I  have  a 
calling  for  the  drama,  or  even  for  the  comedy, 
but  never  for  the  opera." 

"But  we  are  not  talking  about  the 
opera  .  .  ." 

"About  what,  then?" 

"About  this  .  .  .  the  operetta!"  he  cried, 
striking  his  knee.  "Sing,  Miss!  ...  I  have 
only  a  little  time  and  I  am  burning  up  with 
this  heat." 

She  began  to  sing  a  song  of  Tosti's.  The 
director  listened,  but  at  the  same  time  gazed 
at  Sowinska  and  pointed  to  his  parched  lips. 

When  Janina  had  ended,  he  cried,  "Very 
well  .  .  .  we  will  accept  you  ...  I  must 
hurry  out,  for  I'm  roasting." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  have  a  drink  of  something 
with  us,  Mr.  Director?  ..."  she  queried 
timidly,  understanding  the  signs  that  So- 
winska gave  her. 

He  pretended  to  excuse  himself,  but  in  the 
end  remained. 


The  Comedienne  91 

Sowinska  ordered  the  waiter  to  bring  half  a 
bottle  of  cognac,  three  beers  and  some  sand- 
wiches, and,  having  drained  her  own  glass, 
she  hastily  left  them,  saying  that  she  had  for- 
gotten something  in  the  dressing-room. 

"Halt"  shoved  his  chair  nearer  to  Janina's. 

"Hm!  .  .  .  you  have  a  voice,  miss  ...  a 
very  nice  voice  .  .  . "  he  said  and  laid  his  big 
red  paw  upon  her  knee,  while  with  the  other  he 
began  to  pour  some  brandy  into  his  beer. 

She  moved  back  a  little,  disgusted. 

"You  can  put  on  a  bold  front  on  the  stage. 
...  I  will  help  you  .  .  .  "  he  added,  draining 
his  glass  at  one  gulp. 

"If  you  will  be  so  kind,  Mr.  Director  .  .  . " 
Janina  said,  drawing  away  from  him. 

"I  will  see  to  it  ...  I  will  take  care  of 
you!" 

And  suddenly  he  took  her  about  the  waist 
and  drew  her  to  him. 

Janina  shoved  him  back  with  such  force 
that  he  fell  sprawling  upon  the  table,  and  then 
ran  to  the  door,  ready  to  cry  out. 

"Whew!  .  .  .  wait  a  minute  .  .  .  you're  a 
fool !  .  .  .  stay !  .  .  .  I  wanted  to  take  care  of 
you,  help  you,  but  since  you're  such  a  bloom- 
ing fool,  go  and  hang  yourself!  ..." 


92  The  Comedienne 

He  drank  the  rest  of  his  cognac  and  left. 

On  the  veranda  sat  Cabinski  with  the 
stage-manager. 

"  Has  she  any  kind  of  a  voice?  "  he  inquired 
of  "Halt,"  for  he  had  seen  Janina  entering 
the  room .  ' '  A  soprano  ? ' ' 

"Ho,  ho!  something  unheard  of  ... 
almost  an  alto!" 

Janina  sat  for  about  an  hour  in  that  room, 
unable  to  control  the  indignation  and  rage 
that  shook  her.  There  were  lucid  moments 
when  she  would  spring  up  as  though  ready  to 
rush  out  and  away  from  those  people,  but 
immediately  she  would  sink  down  again  with 
a  moan. 

"Where  will  I  go?"  she  asked  herself,  and 
then  added  with  a  sudden  determination. 
"No,  I  will  stay!  ...  I  will  bear  all,  if  it  is 
necessary  ...  I  must!  ...  I  must!" 

Janina  became  set  in  her  stubborn  deter- 
mination. She  collected  within  herself  all  her 
powers  for  impending  battle  with  misfortune, 
with  obstacles,  with  the  whole  evil  and  hostile 
world — and  for  a  moment,  she  saw  herself  on 
some  dizzying  height  where  was  fame  and  the 
intoxication  of  triumph. 

Presently  Sowinska  came  in. 


The  Comedienne  93 

"Thank  you,  for  your  advice  .  .  .  and  for 
leaving  me  with  a  pig!  .  .  ."  the  girl 
exclaimed,  half  weeping. 

"  I  was  in  a  hurry  ...  he  did  not  eat  you, 
did  he?  .  .  .  He's  a  good  man.  ..." 

"Then  leave  your  daughter  alone  with  that 
good  man! "  retorted  Janina  harshly. 

"My  daughter  is  not  an  actress, "  answered 
Sowinska. 

"Oh!  ...  It  doesn't  matter  ...  It's 
only  a  lesson  for  me, "  she  whispered,  turning 
away. 

She  met  Cabinski  and,  approaching  him, 
asked,  "Will  you  accept  me,  Mr.  Director?" 

"You  may  consider  yourself  engaged,"  he 
answered.  ' '  As  for  your  salary  we  shall  speak 
of  that  another  day." 

"What  am  I  to  play?  ...  I  should  like  to 
take  the  part  of  Clara  in  The  Iron  Master.'1 

Cabinski  glanced  at  her  sharply  and  cov- 
ered his  mouth  with  his  hand  so  as  not  to  burst 
out  laughing. 

"Just  a  moment  .  .  .  just  a  moment  .  .  . 
you  must  first  acquaint  yourself  with  the 
stage.  In  the  meanwhile,  you  will  appear 
with  the  chorus.  Halt  told  me  that  you 
know  how  to  play  the  piano  and  read  notes. 


94  The  Comedienne 

To-morrow  I  will  give  you  some  scores  of  the 
operettas  we  play  and  you  can  learn  the 
chorus  parts." 

Janina  went  to  the  dressing-room  and  had 
scarcely  opened  the  door,  when  someone 
pushed  her  back,  slammed  the  door  in  her  face 
and  called  out  angrily  "Upstairs  with  you! 
that  is  where  the  chorus  girls  belong! " 

She  set  her  teeth  and  went  upstairs. 

The  dressing-room  of  the  chorus  was  a  long, 
narrow  and  low  apartment.  Rows  of  un- 
shaded gaslights  burned  above  long  bare, 
board  tables  extending  along  the  walls  on 
three  sides  of  the  room.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  unbeveled  and  unpainted  boards 
which  were  scribbled  all  over  with  names, 
dates  jokes  and  caricatures,  done  in  charcoal 
or  rouge  paint.  On  the  bare  wall  hung  a 
whole  string  of  dresses  and  costumes. 

About  twenty  women  sat  undressed  before 
mirrors  of  various  shapes,  and  before  each 
one  there  burned  candles. 

Janina  spying  an  unoccupied  chair,  near  the 
door,  sat  down  and  began  to  look  about  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  that  is  my  seat!" 
called  a  stout  brunette. 

Janina  stood  aside. 


The  Comedienne  95 

"Did  you  come  to  see  someone?  .  .  ." 
asked  the  same  chorus-girl,  rubbing  her  face 
with  vaseline  before  applying  powder. 

"No.  I  came  to  the  dressing-room.  I  am 
one  of  the  company,"  answered  Janina  rather 
loudly. 

"Oh,  you  are?" 

A  few  heads  raised  themselves  above  the 
tables  and  a  few  pairs  of  eyes  were  centered 
upon  Janina. 

Janina  told  the  brunette  her  name. 

"Girls!  .  .  .  this  new  one  calls  herself 
Orlowska.  Get  acquainted  with  her ! ' '  called 
the  brunette. 

A  few  of  those  sitting  nearest  her  stretched 
out  their  hands  in  greeting  and  then  proceeded 
with  their  make-up. 

"Louise,  loan  me  some  powder." 

"Go  buy  it!" 

"Say  Sowinska!"  called  down  one  of  the 
girls  through  the  open  door  to  the  lower  dress- 
ing-room, "I  met  that  same  guy  .  .  .  you 
know!  .  .  .  I  was  walking  along  NowySwiat." 

1 '  Tell  it  to  the  marines !  Who  would  fall  for 
such  a  scarecrow  as  you!"  put  in  another. 

"I've  bought  a  new  suit  .  .  .  look!"  cried 
a  small,  very  pretty  blonde. 


96  The  Comedienne 

"You  mean  he  bought  it  for  you! " 

" Goodness,  no!  ...  I  bought  it  from  my 
own  savings." 

"Persian  lamb!  .  .  .  oh!  .  .  .  Do  you 
think  we'll  believe  you?  .  .  .  Come  now,  you 
bought  it  out  of  that  fellow's  savings,  didn't 
you?" 

"It's  pure  lily!  .  .  .  The  waist  is  low-cut 
with  a  yoke  of  cream-colored  embroidery,  the 
skirt  is  plain  with  a  shirred  hem,  the  hat  is 
trimmed  with  violets,"  another  girl  was  re- 
counting, as  she  slipped  her  ballet  skirts  over 
her  head. 

"Listen  there,  you  lily-colored  kid  .  .  . 
give  me  back  that  ruble  that  you  owe 
me.  .  .  ." 

"After  the  play  when  I  get  it  I'll  give  it  back 
to  you,  honest!" 

"Ha!  ha!  Cabinski  will  give  it  to  you,  like 
fun  .  .  ." 

"I  tell  you,  my  dear,  I'm  getting  desperate. 
...  He  coughed  a  little  .  .  .  but  I  thought 
nothing  of  it  ...  until  yesterday,  when  I 
looked  down  his  little  throat  I  saw  .  .  .  white 
spots  ...  I  ran  for  the  doctor  ...  he 
examined  him  and  said:  diphtheria!  I  sat 
by  him  all  night,  rubbed  his  throat  every  hour 


The  Comedienne  97 

...  he  couldn't  say  a  word,  only  showed  me 
with  his  little  finger  how  it  hurt  .  .  .  and  the 
tears  streamed  down  his  face  so  pitifully  that 
I  thought  I'd  die  of  grief  ...  I  left  the 
jani tress  with  him,  for  I  must  make  some 
money  ...  I  left  my  cloak  to  cover  him  with 
.  .  .  but  all,  all  that  is  not  enough!  .  .  ."a 
slim  and  pretty  actress  with  a  face  worn  by 
suffering  and  poverty  was  telling  her  neighbor 
in  a  subdued  voice,  while  she  curled  her  hair, 
carmined  her  pale  lips,  and  with  the  pencil 
gave  a  defiant  touch  to  her  eyes  dimmed  by 
tears  and  sleepiness. 

"Helen!  your  mother  asked  about  you 
to-day  ..." 

"  Surely,  not  about  me  .  .  .  my  mother 
died  long  ago." 

"Don't  tell  me  that!  Majkowska  knows 
you  and  your  mother  well  and  saw  you 
together  on  Marshalkowska  Street  the  other 
day." 

"Majkowska  ought  to  buy  herself  a  pair  of 
glasses,  if  she's  so  blind  as  that  ...  I  was 
going  downtown  with  the  housekeeper." 

The  other  girls  began  to  laugh  at  her.  The 
one  who  had  denied  her  mother  blew  out  her 
candle  and  left  in  irritation. 


98  The  Comedienne 

' '  She's  ashamed  of  her  own  mother.  That's 
true,  but  such  a  mother!  .  .  . " 

"A  plain  peasant  woman.  She  com- 
promises her  before  everybody.  ...  At  least, 
she  could  refrain  from  making  a  show  before 
other  people ! ' ' 

"How  so?  Can  a  girl  be  ashamed  of  her 
mother?  ..."  cried  Janina,  who  had  been 
sitting  in  silence,  until  those  last  words  stirred 
her  to  indignation. 

"You  are  a  newcomer,  so  you  don't  know 
anything,"  several  answered  her  at  once. 

"May  I  come  in?  ..."  called  a  masculine 
voice  from  without. 

"You  can't!  you  can't!"  chorused  the  girls 
energetically. 

"Zielinska!  your  editor  has  come." 

A  tall,  stout  chorus  girl,  rustling  her  skirts, 
passed  out  of  the  room. 

"Shepska!  take  a  look  out  after  them." 

Shepska  went  out,  but  came  back  immedi- 
ately. 

u They've  gone  downstairs." 

The  stage  bell  rang  violently. 

"To  the  stage!"  called  the  stage-director 
at  the  door.  ' '  We  begin  immediately ! ' ' 

There  arose  an  indescribable  hubbub.     All 


The  Comedienne  99 

the  girls  began  to  talk  and  shout  at  the  same 
time;  they  ran  about,  tore  away  hairpins  and 
curling  irons  from  one  another,  powdered 
themselves,  quarreled  over  trifles,  blew  out 
candles,  hastily  closed  their  dressing-cases 
and  rushed  down  the  stairs  in  crowds,  for  the 
second  bell  had  already  sounded. 

Janina  descended  last  of  all  and  stood 
behind  the  scenes.  The  performance  began. 
They  were  playing  some  kind  of  half  fairy-like 
operetta.  Janina  could  hardly  recognize 
those  people  or  that  theater — everything  had 
undergone  such  a  magical  transformation  and 
taken  on  a  new  beauty  under  the  influence  of 
powder,  paint,  and  light!  .  .  . 

The  music,  with  the  quiet  caressing  tones  of 
the  flute,  floated  through  the  silence  and  stole 
into  Janina' s  soul,  lulling  it  sweetly  .  .  .  and 
later,  a  dance  of  some  kind,  soft,  voluptuous, 
and  intoxicating,  enveloped  her  with  its 
charm,  lured  and  rocked  her  on  the  waves  of 
rhythm  and  held  her  in  an  ecstatic  lethargy. 

She  felt  herself  drawn  ever  farther  into  a 
confused  whirl  of  lights,  tones  and  colors. 
Her  impulsive  and  sensuous  nature,  struggling 
hitherto  with  the  drab  commonplace  of  every- 
day events  and  people,  was  fascinated.  It 


ioo  The  Comedienne 

was  almost  as  she  had  visioned  it  in  her  soul; 
full  of  lights,  music,  thrilling  accents,  ecstatic 
swoons,  strong  colors,  and  stormy  and  over- 
powering emotions,  breaking  with  the  force  of 
thunderbolts. 

The  suffocating  odor  of  powder. dust  floated 
about  her  like  a  cloud,  while  from  the  crowded 
hall  there  flowed  a  stream  of  hot  breaths  and 
desiring  glances  that  broke  against  the  stage 
like  a  magnetic  wave,  drowning  in  forget- 
fulness  all  that  was  not  song,  music,  and 
pleasure. 

When  the  act  ended  and  a  storm  of  applause 
broke  loose,  she  was  on  the  verge  of  fainting. 
She  bent  her  head  and  eagerly  drank  in  those 
murmurs  resembling  lightning  flashes  and,  like 
them  blinding  the  soul.  She  breathed  in 
those  cries  of  the  delighted  public  with  her  full 
breath  and  with  all  the  might  of  her  soul  that 
craved  for  fame.  She  closed  her  eyes,  so  that 
that  impression,  that  picture  might  last 
longer. 

The  enchanting  vision  had  dissolved.  Over 
the  stage  moved  men  in  their  shirt  sleeves 
and  without  vests;  they  were  changing  the 
scenes,  arranging  the  furniture,  fastening  the 
props.  She  saw  the  grimy  necks,  the  dirty 


The  Comediefine 


and   ugly   faces,    the    coarse    and   hardened 
hands  and  the  heavy  forms. 

She  went  out  on  the  stage  and  through  a  slit 
in  the  curtain  gazed  out  on  the  dim  hall  packed 
'full  of  people.  She  saw  hundreds  of  young 
faces,  women's  faces,  smiling  and  still  stirred 
by  the  music,  while  their  owners  fanned 
themselves;  the  men  in  their  black  evening 
clothes  formed  dark  spots  scattered  at  regular 
intervals,  upon  the  light  background  of  femi- 
nine toilettes. 

Janina  felt  a  strange  disappointment  as  she 
realized  that  the  faces  of  the  public  were  very 
much  like  those  of  Grzesikiewicz,  her  father, 
her  home  acquaintances,  the  principal  of  her 
boarding  school,  the  professors  at  the  academy 
and  the  telegrapher  at  Bukowiec.  For  the 
moment,  it  seemed  to  her  that  that  was  a  sheer 
impossibility.  How  so?  ...  She,  of  course, 
knew  what  to  think  about  those  others,  whom 
long  ago  she  had  classified  as  fools,  light- 
heads,  drunkards,  gossipers,  silly  geese  and 
house-hens;  small  and  shallow  souls,  a  band  of 
common  eaters-of-bread,  sunk  in  the  shallow 
morass  of  material  existence.  And  these 
people  that  filled  the  theater  and  doled  out 
applause,  and  whom  she  had  once  thought  of 


io2  The  Comedienne 

as  demi-gods — were  they  the  same  as  those 
others?  Janina  asked  herself,  that,  wonder- 
ingly. 

" Madame!"  said  a  voice  beside  her. 

She  tore  her  face  away  from  the  curtain. 
At  her  side  stood  a  handsome,  elegantly 
dressed  young  man  who  was  holding  his  hand 
to  his  hat,  smiling  in  a  conventional  manner. 

11  Just  let  me  look  a  moment  .  .  . "  he  said. 

Janina  moved  away  a  bit. 

He  glanced  through  the  slit  in  the  curtain 
and  relinquished  her  place  to  her. 

"Pardon  me,  pardon  me  for  disturbing 
you  .  .  ."he  said. 

"Oh,  I've  looked  all  I  wanted  to,  sir  .  .  ." 
she  answered. 

"Not  a  very  interesting  sight,  is  it?  .  .  ." 
he  queried.  "The  most  authentic  Philistia; 
trade-mongers  and  shoemakers.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
you  think,  madame,  that  they  come  to  hear, 
and  admire  the  play?  Oh,  no!  ...  they 
come  here  to  display  their  new  clothes,  have 
supper,  and  kill  time.  ..." 

"Well  then,  who  does  come  for  the  play 
itself?"  she  asked. 

"  In  this  place,  no  one.  .  .  .  At  the  Grand 
Theater  and  at  the  Varieties  .  .  .  there,  per- 


The  Comedienne  103 

haps,  you  may  yet  find  a  group,  a  very  small 
group  who  love  art  and  who  come  for  the  sake 
of  art  alone.  I  have  often  touched  upon  that 
matter  in  the  papers." 

"Mr.  Editor,  let  me  have  a  cigarette!" 
called  an  actor  from  behind  the  scenes. 

"At  your  service."  He  handed  the  actor 
a  silver  cigarette-case. 

Janina,  moving  away,  gazed  with  admira- 
tion at  the  writer,  delighted  with  the  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  such  a  man  at  close  range. 

How  many  times  in  the  country  while  lis- 
tening to  the  everlasting  conversations  about 
farming,  politics,  rainy  and  clear  weather,  she 
had  dreamed  of  this  other  world,  of  people 
who  would  discourse  to  her  of  ideals,  art, 
humanity,  progress  and  poetry,  and  who 
impersonated  in  themselves  all  those  ideals. 

' '  You  must  not  be  very  long  in  this  company 
for  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
before  ..." 

"I  was  engaged  only  to-day." 

"Have  you  appeared  elsewhere  before?" 

"No,  never  on  the  real  stage.  ...  I  took 
part  only  in  amateur  theatricals." 

"That  is  the  way  nearly  all  dramatic  tal- 
ent develops.  I  know  ...  I  happen  to 


104  The  Comedienne 

know  .  .  .  Modrzejewska  herself  often  men- 
tioned that  fact  to  me,"  he  remarked,  with  a 
condescending  smile. 

"Mr.  Editor  ...  do  your  duty!"  called 
Kaczkowska,  extending  her  hands. 

The  editor  buttoned  her  gloves,  kissed  each 
of  her  hands  a  few  times,  received  a  slap  on  the 
shoulder  in  reward  and  retreated  to  the  cur- 
tain where  Janina  was  standing. 

"So  this  is  your  first  appearance  in  the 
theater?  ..."  he  asked.  "No  doubt  it's  a 
case  of  the  family  opposing  .  .  .  inflexible 
determination  on  your  part  .  .  .  the  isolation 
and  dullness  of  the  countryside  .  .  .  your 
first  appearance  as  an  amateur  .  .  .  stage 
fright  .  .  .  success  .  .  .  the  recognition  of 
the  divine  spark  within  yourself  .  .  .  your 
dreams  of  the  real  stage  .  .  .  tears  .  .  . 
sleepless  nights  ...  a  struggle  with  an  ad- 
verse environment  .  .  .  finally,  consent  .  .  . 
or  perhaps  a  secret  escape  in  the  night  .  .  . 
fear  .  .  .  anxiety  .  .  .  going  the  rounds  of 
the  directors  .  .  .  seeking  an  engagement 
.  .  .  ecstasy  .  .  .  art  .  .  .  godliness!"  he 
spoke  rapidly,  telegraphically. 

"You  have  almost  guessed  it,  Mr.  Editor 
...  it  was  the  same  with  me,"  said  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  105 

"You  see,  mademoiselle,  I  knew  so  from  the 
first.  It's  intuition  that's  all!  I'll  take  care 
of  you,  upon  my  word!  .  .  .  I'll  insert  a  little 
item  about  you  in  our  next  issue.  Later, 
give  a  few  details  under  a  sensational  headline, 
next,  a  longer  article  about  the  new  star  on  the 
horizon  of  dramatic  art,"  he  sped  on.  .  .  . 
"You  will  sweep  them  off  their  feet  .  .  .  the 
directors  will  tear  you  away  fron  each  other, 
and  in  about  a  year  or  two  .  .  .  you  will  be 
in  the  Grand  Theater  at  Warsaw!  ..." 

"But,  Mr.  Editor,  no  one  knows  me;  no  one, 
as  yet,  knows  whether  I  have  talent  ..." 

'  *  You  have  talent,  my  word !  My  intuition 
tells  me  that.  ...  Do  not  believe  the  testi- 
mony of  the  senses,  mademoiselle,  hold  your- 
self aloof  from  all  reasoning,  throw  to  the  dogs 
all  calculations,  but  do  not  fail  to  believe 
intuition!  ..." 

"Come  here,  editor  .  .  .  hurry!"  called 
someone  to  him. 

"  Au  revoir!  au  revoir!"  he  said,  throwing  a 
kiss  to  Janina  and  touching  the  brim  of  his 
hat  as  he  disappeared. 

Janina  arose  from  her  seat,  but  that  same 
intuition  which  he  had  advised  her  to  heed, 
told  her  not  to  take  his  words  seriously.  He 


io6  The  Comedienne 

seemed  to  her  a  light-headed  individual  given 
to  hasty  judgments.  That  promise  of  notices 
and  articles  in  the  papers  and  his  extravagant 
praises  of  her  talent  seemed  to  her  merely 
insincere  twaddle.  Even  his  face,  gestures, 
and  manner  of  speaking  reminded  her  of  a 
certain  notorious  braggart  living  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Bukowiec. 

The  second  act  of  the  play  commenced. 

Janina  looked  on,  but  it  did  not  carry  her 
away  as  the  first  had  done. 

"  How  do  you  like  our  theater?  ..."  asked 
the  brunette  chorus  girl,  whom  she  had  met 
in  the  dressing-room. 

"Very  well!"  answered  Janina. 

"Bah!  the  theater  is  like  a  plague;  when  it 
infects  anyone,  you  might  as  well  say 
amen!  ..."  whispered  the  brunette,  her 
voice  hard. 

Behind  the  scenes,  in  the  almost  dark  pas- 
ages  between  the  decorations  there  was  a  great 
number  of  people.  The  actors  stood  in  the 
passages  and  certain  pairs  were  crouched  in 
the  darkness;  whispers  and  discreet  laughs 
sounded  on  all  sides. 

The  stage-director,  an  old,  bald  man  with- 
out a  collar  and  dressed  only  in  a  vest,  with  a 


The  Comedienne  107 

scenario  in  one  hand  and  a  bell  in  the  other, 
ran  up  and  down  at  the  back. 

"To  the  stage!  You  enter  immediately, 
madame!  .  .  .  enter!  .  .  ."he  cried  all  per- 
spired and  flushed,  and  ran  on  again,  gathered 
from  the  dressing-rooms  those  who  were 
needed  on  the  stage,  and  at  the  appropriate 
moment  whispered  ' '  Enter ! ' ' 

Janina  saw  how  the  actors  suddenly  inter- 
rupted their  conversations,  left  each  other  in 
the  midst  of  some  sentence,  stood  down  half- 
empty  glasses,  and  rushed  for  the  entrances, 
waiting  for  their  turn,  immovable  and  silent 
or  nervously  whispering  the  words  of  their 
roles,  and  entering  into  their  characters; 
she  saw  the  quivering  of  lips  and  eyelids,  the 
trembling  of  legs,  the  sudden  paleness  beneath 
the  layer  of  paint,  and  the  feverish  glances 
of  stage  fright  .  .  . 

"Enter!"  sounded  a  voice  like  the  crack  of 
a  whip. 

Almost  everyone  started  violently,  hastily 
assumed  the  required  facial  expression,  crossed 
himself  a  few  times  and  went  on. 

Each  time  the  stage  door  opened  a  thrill 
went  through  Janina  at  that  wave  of  strange 
fire,  that  streamed  toward  her  from  the  public. 


io8  The  Comedienne 

She  began  again  to  lose  herself  in  the  play. 
That  mysterious  gloom,  those  garish  hues 
and  forms,  emerging  from  the  shadows  and 
suddenly  flooded  with  light,  the  strains  of 
invisible  music,  the  echo  of  singing,  the  sound 
of  subdued  footfalls  and  strange  whispers  in 
the  darkness,  the  feverish  rapture  of  the 
public,  the  glowing  eyes,  the  excitement,  the 
thundering  applause,  like  a  far-away  storm, 
streams  of  dazzling  light  alternating  with 
darkness,  the  throng  of  people,  the  pathetic 
ring  of  words,  tragic  cries,  heart-rending  sobs, 
moans,  weeping,  a  whole  melodrama,  pom- 
pously and  noisily  acted — all  this  filled  Janina 
with  a  fervor  different  from  the  one  she  had 
felt  in  the  first  act,  the  fervor  of  energy  and 
action.  She  went  through  the  playing  with 
all  the  actors,  suffered  together  with  those 
paper  heroes  and  heroines,  feared  with  them 
and  loved  with  them;  she  felt  their  nervous- 
ness before  entering  the  stage,  trembled  with 
emotion  in  the  pathetic  moments  of  the  play, 
while  certain  words  and  cries  sent  so  strange 
and  painful  a  tremor  through  her  that  they 
brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes  and  a  faint  cry 
to  her  lips. 

An  increasing  number  of  people  from  the 


The  Comedienne  109 

audience  began  to  come  behind  the  scenes. 
Boxes  of  candy,  bouquets,  and  single  flowers 
circulated  freely  from  hand  to  hand.  Beer, 
whisky,  and  cognac  were  drunk  and  cakes 
were  snatched  from  a  huge  tray.  Gusts  of 
laughter  broke  out  here  and  there,  jokes 
exploded  like  fireworks  in  the  air.  Some  of 
the  chorus  girls  had  dressed  and  were  going 
out  into  the  garden. 

Janina  saw  actors  in  their  negligee  only, 
parading  up  and  down  before  their  dressing- 
rooms;  women,  in  white  petticoats  with  naked 
shoulders  and  with  half  of  their  stage  make-up 
removed,  were  strolling  about  the  stage  and 
peeping  through  the  curtain  at  the  public. 
On  noticing  some  stranger,  they  would  retreat 
uttering  little  shrieks,  smiling  coquettishly, 
and  darting  significant  glances. 

Waiters  from  the  restaurant,  maids,  and 
stage  hands  went  flying  about  like  hunting 
hounds. 

"Sowinska!" 

"Tailor!" 

"Costumed" 

"A  pair  of  pants  and  a  cape!" 

"A  cane  for  the  stage  and  a  letter!" 

"Wicek!  run  to  the  director  and  tell  him 


no  The  Comedienne 

that  it  is  time  for  him  to  dress  for  the  last 
act!" 

<J Set  the  stage!" 

"Wicek!  send  me  some  rouge,  beer,  and 
sandwiches!  .  .  ."  called  one  actress  across 
the  stage. 

In  the  dressing-rooms  reigned  chaos,  forced 
and  hurried  changing  of  dress,  feverish  make- 
up with  cosmetics  that  were  almost  melting 
from  the  heat,  and  quarrels.  .  .  . 

"If  you  pass  before  me  again  on  the  stage, 
sir,  I'll  kick  your  shins,  as  I  live!" 

"Go  kick  your  dog!  My  part  calls  for 
that  .  .  .  here,  read  it !" 

"You  intentionally  hide  me  from  view!" 

"What  did  I  tell  you!"  said  another.  "I 
merely  popped  out  and  immediately  there 
arose  a  murmur  of  applause." 

"It  was  only  the  wind  and  that  fellow 
thinks  it  was  applause,"  answered  another 
voice. 

"There  was  a  murmur  of  disgust,  because 
you  bungled  your  part." 

"How  the  deuce  can  one  keep  from  bungling 
when  Dobek  prompts  like  a  consumptive 
nag?" 

"  Speak  yourself,  and  I  will  then  stop  .  .  . 


The  Comedienne  m 

we'll  see  what  a  fool  you'll  make  of  yourself! 
...  I  put  word  after  word  into  his  ear  as 
with  a  shovel  and  .  .  .  nothing  doing!  .  .  . 
I  shout  0'it  so  loudly  that  Halt  kicks  at  the 
stage  for  silence  .  .  .  but  that  fellow  still 
stands  there  like  a  dummy!"  retorted  Dobek. 

"I  always  know  my  part;  you  trip  me  up 
intentionally." 

11  Tailor!  a  belt,  a  sword  and  a  hat  .  .  . 
hurry!" 

"...  Mary!  if  you  tell  me  to  go,  there 
will  go  with  me  night  and  suffering,  loneliness 
and  tears  .  .  .  Mary!  do  you  not  hear  me? 
I ...  It  is  the  voice  of  the  heart  that  loves 
you  .  .  .  the  voice  ..."  repeated  Wladek, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  dressing-room  with 
his  r61e  and  gesticulating  wildly,  deaf  to  all 
that  was  going  on  about  him. 

"Hey  there,  Wladek  .  .  .  put  on  the  soft 
pedal.  .  .  .  You'll  have  enough  opportunity 
to  roar  and  groan  on  the  stage  until  our  ears 
are  sore,"  called  someone. 

11  Gentlemen!  haven't  you  perhaps  seen 
Peter?"  inquired  an  actress,  poking  her  head 
through  the  door. 

"Gentlemen,  see  if  Peter  isn't  sitting  some- 
where under  the  table,"  mocked  someone. 


The  Comedienne 


11  Milady  .  .  .  Peter  went  upstairs  with  a 
very  pretty  little  dame." 

"Murder  him,  madame!  he's  unfaithful!" 

Such  were  the  remarks,  punctuated  with 
laughter,  that  greeted  her. 

The  actress  vanished  and  from  the 
other  side  of  the  stage  one  could  hear 
her  asking  everyone,  "Have  you  seen 
Peter?" 

"She  will  go  crazy  some  day  from  jealousy 
over  him!  .  .  ."  remarked  someone. 

'  l  A  respectable  woman  !  '  ' 

"But  that  doesn't  prevent  her  from  being  a 
fool." 

"How  are  you,  Editor!" 

"Oh,  it's  the  editor,  is  it!  ...  that  means 
we'll  have  beer  and  cigarettes." 

"And  here  comes  the  counselor!  ..." 

"  Good  evening  Counselor!" 

"What  news  at  the  box  office?" 

"Fine!  .  .  .  The  theater  is  sold  out,  for  I 
saw  Gold  smoking  a  cigar." 

"Praised  be  the  gods!  The  advances  en 
our  salaries  will  be  larger." 

"How  do  you  do,  Bolek!  .  .  .  Don't  come 
in  here,  or  you  will  melt  like  butter  ...  we 
have  a  little  Africa  here  to-day  ..." 


The  Comedienne  113 

"We'll  cool  ourselves  immediately,  for  I've 
ordered  the  beer  ..." 

"To  the  stage,  everybody!  .  .  .  The  people 
to  the  stage!  The  priests  to  the  stage!  The 
soldiers  to  the  stage!"  shouted  the  stage- 
director,  rushing  from  one  dressing-room  to 
the  other. 

After  a  moment,  all  had  vanished. 

It  was  well  after  ten  o'clock,  the  next  morn- 
ing at  her  hotel  when  Janina  awoke,  worn-out 
completely;  for  the  moment,  she  could  not 
understand,  where  she  was. 

She  no  longer  felt  any  of  yesterday's  feverish 
raptures,  but  rather  a  quiet  gladness  that  she 
was  already  in  the  theater.  At  moments,  the 
bright  tone  of  her  mood  was  overcast  by  some 
shadow,  some  presentiment,  or  unconscious 
memory  from  the  past ;  it  was  the  glimmering 
of  something  unpleasant  which,  although  it 
quickly  vanished,  left  traces  of  uneasiness. 

She  hastily  drank  her  tea  and  was  about  to 
go  out,  when  someone  gently  rapped  at  the 
door. 

"Come  in!"  she  called. 

There  entered  an  old  Jewish  woman,  neatly 
dressed,  with  a  big  box  under  her  arm. 

1 1  Good  morning,  miss ! ' ' 


ii4  The  Comedienne 

"Good  morning,"  she  answered,  surprised 
by  the  visit. 

"Perhaps  you  will  buy  something,  miss? 
...  I  have  good,  cheap  wares.  Perhaps 
you  need  some  jewelry?  Perhaps  some 
gloves  or  hairpins, — they  are  pure  silver. 
I  have  all  kinds  of  articles  at  different  prices 
and  all  are  genuine  Parisian  goods!  ..."  she 
chattered  on  rapidly,  spreading  the  contents 
of  her  box  on  the  table,  while  her  little  black 
eyes  with  heavy  red  lids,  like  the  eyes  of  a 
hawk,  wandered  about  the  room  and  took 
stock  of  everything. 

Janina  kept  silent. 

"It  won't  harm  you  to  look  at  them  ..." 
insisted  the  Jewess.  "I  have  cheap  things 
and  pretty  things!  Perhaps  you  will  have 
some  ribbons,  or  laces,  or  stockings?  ...  or 
will  you  have  some  of  these  silk  handker- 
chiefs? ..." 

Janina  began  to  examine  the  collection 
spread  out  on  the  table  and  selected  a  few 
yards  of  some  ribbon. 

"Perhaps  your  mother  will  also  buy  some- 
thing? ..."  ventured  the  Jewess,  looking  at 
her  intently. 

"I  am  alone." 


The  Comedienne  115 

"Alone?"  she  drawled,  with  an  inquisitive 
contraction  of  her  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  intend  to  live  here," 
explained  Janina,  as  though  justifying  her- 
self. 

"Perhaps  I  might  recommend  a  boarding 
house  to  you?  ...  I  know  a  certain  widow 
who  ..." 

"Very  well,"  interrupted  the  girl,  "you 
might  find  me  a  room  with  some  private  family 
on  Nowy  Swiat,  near  the  theater  ..." 

"You  belong  to  the  theater,  miss?"  .  .  . 
ah!  .  .  ." 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps  you  need  something  else?  ...  I 
have  beautiful  things  for  the  theater." 

"No,  I  have  all  I  want." 

"I  will  sell  them  cheap  ...  as  I'm  an 
honest  woman  .  .  .  cheap!  They  are  just 
what  you  want  for  the  theater." 

"I  don't  need  anything." 

"  May  I  die,  if  they  are  not  dirt  cheap!  .  .  . 
These  are  such  hard  times." 

She  replaced  all  her  wares  in  the  box  and 
drew  closer  to  Janina. 

"Perhaps  you  will  give  me  a  chance  to  make 
something?  ..." 


The  Comedienne 


"I  won't  buy  anything  else,  for  I  don't  need 
it!"  answered  Jane,  growing  inapatient. 

"I  don't  mean  that!" 

The  old  woman  began  to  whisper  hurriedly 
—  "I  know  nice  young  men  .  .  .  do  you 
understand,  miss?  .  .  .  rich  young  men  !  .  .  . 
That  is  not  my  business,  but  they  asked  me  to 
.  .  .  They'll  come  to  see  you  themselves  .  .  . 
Nice,  rich,  young  men." 

"What?  .  .  .  What?"  cried  Janina. 

1  'Why  are  you  so  excited,  Miss?" 

"Get  out  of  here,  or  I'll  call  the  servant!" 
shouted  Janina. 

"Goodness,  what  a  temper!  .  .  .  I  knew  at 
least  ten  ladies,  who  were  the  same  as  you  in 
the  beginning  and  afterwards  they  were  ready 
to  kiss  my  hands,  if  only  I  would  introduce 
them  to  some  gentleman  ..." 

She  did  not  finish,  for  Janina  opened  the 
door,  and  pushed  her  out. 

At  the  theater  she  met  Sowinska  on  the 
veranda,  and  immediately,  in  the  politest 
manner,  asked  her  if  she  did  not  know  of  some 
room  she  could  rent  with  a  private  family. 

"Ah,  that  just  fits  in  fine!  ...  If  you  wish, 
there  is  a  room  in  our  house  that  you  may  have. 
We  can  let  you  have  it  cheap,  together  with 


The  Comedienne  117 

your  meals.  It  is  a  very  nice  room  on  the 
lower  floor,  with  windows  facing  the  south, 
and  a  separate  entrance  from  the  hall." 

They  agreed  on  the  price  and  Janina  said 
she  would  pay  her  a  month's  rent  in  ad- 
vance. 

"So  that  all's  settled!"  said  Sowinska. 
"You  will  find  our  house  very  quiet,  for  my 
daughter  has  no  children.  .  .  .  Come,  I  will 
show  you  the  room." 

"Not  until  after  the  rehearsal;  and  if  you 
haven't  the  time  to  wait,  leave  me  the  address 
and  I  will  find  the  place  myself." 

Sowinska  gave  her  the  address  and  went 
away. 

Janina  was  handed  her  notes  and  took  part 
in  the  rehearsal,  singing  from  them. 

Kaczkowska  wanted  Halt  to  accompany  her 
at  the  piano. 

"Give  me  a  rest,  madame!  I  have  no 
time!"  he  answered. 

"If  you  wish,  madame,  I  will  accompany 
you,  providing  it  is  from  notes  ..."  proposed 
Janina. 

Kaczkowska  drew  her  eagerly  away  to  the 
room  with  the  piano  and  kept  her  busy  for 
about  an  hour;  but  the  whole  company  at 


"8  The  Comedienne 

once  became  interested  in  this  chorus  girl  who 
could  play  the  piano. 

Afterward  Cabinska  spoke  with  Janina  a 
long  time,  and  requested  her  to  come  to  her 
home  the  following  day  after  the  rehearsal. 

Janina  went  straight  from  the  theater  to 
Sowinska's  house  to  look  at  her  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"THE  Management  has  the  honor  of 
requesting  the  presence  of  the  lady  and  gentle- 
man artists  of  the  Company,  as  also  the 
members  of  the  orchestra  and  the  choruses,  at 
a  tea  and  social  to  be  held  at  the  home  of  the 
Director  on  the  6th  of  this  month,  after  the 
performance.  The  Director  of  the  Society 
of  Dramatic  Artists.  (Signed)  John,  the 
Anointed,  Cabinski. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say,  Pepa?  .  .  .  Will 
this  do?  .  .  . "  the  Director  asked  his  wife 
after  he  had  read  aloud  the  invitation. 

"Teddy!  be  quiet,  I  can't  hear  what  father 
is  reading." 

" Mamma,  Eddy  took  my  roll!" 

"Papa,  Teddy  called  me  a  jackass!" 

"Silence!  By  God!  with  those  children 
.  .  .  Quiet  them,  Pepa." 

"  If  you  give  me  a  penny,  pa,  I'll  be  quiet." 

"And  me  too,  me  too! " 

Cabinski  held  the  whip  on  his  knee  under 
119 


120  The  Comedienne 

the  table  and  waited;  as  soon  as  the  children 
had  advanced  near  enough,  he  sprang  up  and 
began  to  belabor  them. 

There  arose  a  squealing  and  screeching;  the 
door  flew  open  and  the  junior  directors  went 
sliding  down  the  banisters  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  howls. 

Cabinski  calmly  proceeded  to  read  over 
again  the  invitation. 

"At  what  time  do  you  wish  to  invite 
them?" 

"  After  the  performance." 

"You'll  have  to  ask  some  of  the  reporters. 
But  that  must  be  done  personally." 

"I  haven't  time." 

"  Ask  someone  from  the  chorus  to  write  the 
invitations  for  you." 

"Bah!  And  let  them  make  stupid  mis- 
takes? Perhaps  you  will  write  them  for  me, 
Pepa?  .  .  .  You  have  a  neat  hand." 

"No,  it's  not  proper  that  I,  the  wife  of  the 
director,  should  write  to  strange  men.  I  told 
that  .  .  .  what  is  the  name  of  the  girl  whom 
you  engaged  for  the  chorus?  ..." 

"Orlowska." 

"Yes  ...  I  told  her  to  come  here  to-day. 
I  like  her.  Kaczkowska  told  me  that  she 


The  Comedienne  121 

plays  the  piano  excellently,  so  the  thought 
struck  me  that  ..." 

"Well  then,  let  her  write  the  invitations;  if 
she  plays  the  piano,  she  must  also  know  how 
to  write." 

"Not  only  that,  but  I  think  that  she  could 
teach  Jadzia  how  to  play  ..." 

"  Do  you  know,  that's  not  at  all  a  bad  idea! 
.  .  .  We  might  include  that  in  her  future 
salary." 

"How  much  are  you  paying  her?"  she 
asked,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"I  have  not  yet  agreed  upon  a  price  .  .  . 
but  I  will  pay  her  as  much  as  I  pay  the 
others,"  he  answered  with  a  strange  smile. 

"Which  means  that  ..." 

"That  I'll  pay  her  a  great,  a  great  deal  .  .  . 
in  the  future.' 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Both  began  to  laugh,  and  then  became 
silent. 

"John,  what  do  you  propose  for  the 
supper?" 

"I  don't  know  as  yet  .  .  .  I'll  talk  it  over 
at  the  restaurant.  We'll  arrange  it  some- 
how .  .  ." 

Cabinski  proceeded  to  make  a  clean  copy  of 


122  The  Comedienne 

the  invitation,  while  Pepa  sat  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  puffing  away  at  her  cigarette. 

"John!  .  .  .  Haven't  you  noticed  any- 
thing peculiar  about  Majkowska's  acting, 
recently?" 

"No,  nothing  ...  if  she  performs  a  little 
spasmodically,  that's  merely  her  style." 

"A  little!  .  .  .  Why,  she  goes  into  epilep- 
tic fits!  The  editor  told  me  the  papers  are 
calling  attention  to  it." 

"For  God's  sake,  Pepa!  Do  you  want  to 
drive  away  our  best  actress?  You  ousted 
Nicolette,  who  had  a  gallery  of  her  own." 

"Well,  and  you  had  a  great  liking  for  her 
too;  I  happen  to  know  something  about  that." 

"And  I  could  tell  you  something  about  that 
editor  of  yours  ..." 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours!  .  .  .  Do 
I  interfere  when  you  go  prowling  about  back- 
rooms with  chorus  girls?  " 

"But  neither  do  I  ask  you  what  you  do! 
...  So  what's  the  use  of  quarreling  about 
it?  ...  Only  I  will  not  let  you  touch 
Majkowska!  With  you  it's  merely  a  question 
of  intrigue,  while  with  me  it's  one  of  existence. 
You  know  right  well  that  there  is  not  another 
such  pair  of  heroic  actors  as  Mela  Majkowska 


The  Comedienne  123 

and  Topolski,  anywhere  in  the  provinces,  and 
perhaps  not  even  at  the  Warsaw  Theater.  To 
tell  the  truth,  they  are  the  sole  props  of  our 
company!  You  want  to  oust  Mela,  do  you? 
...  I  tell  you  she  has  the  sympathy  of  the 
whole  public,  the  press  praises  her  .  .  .  and 
she  has  real  talent !  .  .  ." 

"And  I?  .  .  ."  she  asked  threateningly, 
facing  him. 

"You?  .  .  .  You  also  have  talent,  but" 
.  .  .  he  added  softly,  "but  .  .  ." 

"There  are  no  'buts '  about  it !  You  "are  an 
absolute  idiot.  .  .  .  You  have  no  conception 
whatever  about  acting,  or  plays,  or  artists. 
You  are  yourself  a  great  artist,  oh,  such  a  great 
artist !  Do  you  remember  how  you  played  the 
part  of  Francis  in  The  Robbers?  .  .  .  Do 
you?  ...  If  you  don't,  I'll  tell  you  .  .  . 
You  played  it  like  a  shoemaker,  like  a  circus 
clown!  ..." 

Cabinski  sprang  up  as  though  someone  had 
struck  him  with  a  whip. 

"That's  a  lie!  The  famous  Krolikowski 
played  it  in  the  same  way;  they  advised  me  to 
imitate  him,  and  I  did  ..." 

"Krolikowski  played  like  you?  .  .  . 
You're  a  fool,  my  artist!" 


124  The  Comedienne 

"Pepa,  you  had  better  keep  quiet,  or  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  are ! " 

"O  tell  me,  please  do  tell  me!"  she  cried 
out  in  a  rage. 

"Nothing  great,  nor  even  anything  small, 
my  dear." 

"Tell  me  plainly  what  you  mean  ..." 

"Well  then,  I'll  tell  you  that  you  are  not  a 
Modrzejewska,"  laughed  Cabinski. 

"Silence,  you  clown!  ..."  she  yelled 
throwing  her  lighted  cigarette  at  him. 

"Wait,  wait,  you  backstairs  prima  donna," 
he  hissed,  growing  pale  with  rage. 

Cabinski  in  his  dressing  gown,  torn  at  the 
elbows,  in  his  night  clothes  and  slippers, 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  while 
Pepa,  just  as  she  had  arisen  from  sleep, 
unwashed,  with  yesterday's  stage  make-up 
still  adorning  her  face,  and  her  hair  all  dis- 
heveled, whirled  around  in  circles,  her  white 
and  soiled  petticoat  rustling. 

They  stared  at  each  other  with  furious  and 
threatening  glances.  Their  old  competitive 
enmity  burst  out  in  full  force.  They  hated 
each  other  as  artists  because  they  mutually 
and  irresistibly  envied  each  other  their  talents 
and  success  with  the  public. 


The  Comedienne  125 

"I  played  poorly,  did  I?  ...  I  played  like 
a  circus  clown?  .  .  ."he  shouted. 

He  seized  a  glass  from  one  of  the  racks  and 
hurled  it  to  the  floor. 

Quickly  Pepa  intercepted  him  and  screened . 
the  dishes  with  her  body. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way ! "  he  growled  threaten- 
ingly, clenching  his  fists. 

'  *  These  are  mine ! ' '  she  cried  and  threw  the 
whole  heap  of  dishes  at  his  feet  with  such  force 
that  they  broke  into  little  bits. 

"  You  cow!" 

11  You  fool!" 

"Please  ma'am,  let  me  have  the  money  for 
breakfast,"  said  the  maid,  at  that  instant 
entering. 

' '  Let  my  husband  give  it  to  you ! ' '  answered 
Cabinska,  and  with  a  proud  stride,  went  into 
the  next  room,  slamming  the  door  after  her. 

"Let  me  have  the  money,  sir.  It's  late 
and  the  children  are  crying!" 

He  laid  a  ruble  on  the  table,  brushed  his 
top  hat  with  his  sleeve  and  departed. 

The  nurse  took  a  pitcher  and  a  basket  for 
rolls  and  went  out. 

The  Cabinskis  had  no  more  time  to  think 
of  their  household  than  of  their  children,  and 


126  The  Comedienne 

cared  for  nothing,  absorbed  entirely  by  the 
theatef,  their  r61es,  and  their  struggle  for 
success.  The  canvas  walls  of  the  stage  scenes 
and  decorations  representing  elegant  salons 
and  interiors  sufficed  them  entirely;  there  they 
breathed  more  freely  and  felt  better.  In  the 
same  way  a  canvas  scene  depicting  some  wild 
landscape  with  a  castle  on  the  summit  of  a 
chocolate-colored  hill  and  a  wood  painted 
below  sufficed  them  as  a  substitute  for  real 
fields  and  woods.  The  smell  of  mastic,  cos- 
metics, and  perfume  were  to  them  the  sweetest 
odors.  They  merely  came  home  to  sleep, 
their  real  home,  where  they  lived  habitually, 
was  on  the  stage  and  behind  the  scenes. 

Cabinski  had  been  in  the  theater  some 
twenty  years,  playing  continually,  and  still, 
he  desired  each  new  role  for  himself  and  envied 
others. 

Pepa  never  took  account  of  anything,  but 
listened  only  to  her  momentary  instinct  and 
sometimes  to  her  husband.  She  doted  on  the 
melodrama,  on  strained  and  nerve-thrilling 
situations;  she  liked  a  sweeping  gesture,  an 
exalted  tone  of  voice,  and  glaring  novelties. 
Her  pathos  was  often  of  the  exaggerated 
variety,  but  she  played  with  fervor.  A  certain 


The  Comedienne  127 

play,  or  some  accent  or  word  would  move  her 
so  deeply  that  even  after  leaving  the  stage 
she  would  still  shed  real  tears  behind  the 
scenes. 

She  knew  her  parts  better  than  anyone  else, 
for  she  would  memorize  them  with  mechanical 
precision.  For  her  children  she  cared  about 
as  much  as  for  her  old  dresses :  she  bore  them 
— and  left  them  to  the  care  of  her  husband 
and  the  nurse. 

Immediately  after  Cabinski's  departure 
Pepa  called  through  the  door,  "Nurse,  come 
here!" 

The  nurse  had  just  returned  with  the  coffee 
and  the  boys  whom  she  had  dragged  in  from 
the  yard  with  difficulty. 

She  served  the  breakfast  to  the  children  and 
promised:  "Eddy  .  .  .  you  will  get  a  pair  of 
new  shoes  .  .  .  papa  will  buy  them  for  you. 
Teddy  will  get  a  new  suit  and  Jadzia  a  dress 
.  .  .  Drink  your  coffee,  dears !" 

She  patted  their  heads,  handed  them  the 
rolls  and  wiped  their  faces  with  maternal 
solicitude.  She  loved  them  and  fussed  over 
them  as  though  they  were  her  own  children. 

"Nurse!"  shouted  Cabinska,  sticking  her 
head  through  the  door. 


128  The  Comedienne 

"  Yes,  I  hear  you." 

"  Where  is  Tony?" 

"  She's  gone  to  the  laundry." 

"You  will  go,  nurse,  for  my  dress  to  Sowin- 
ska  on  Widok  Street.  Do  you  know  where  it 
is?  .  .  ." 

"Of  course,  I  know!  .  .  .  That  skinny 
woman  who's  as  cross  as  a  chained  dog.  ..." 

"Go  right  away." 

"Mamma!  ...  let  us  also  go  with 
nurse  ..."  begged  the  children,  for  they 
feared  their  mother. 

"You  will  take  the  children  along  with 
you,  nurse." 

"Of  course,  that's  understood  ...  I 
wouldn't  leave  them  here  alone!" 

She  dressed  the  children,  put  on  a  sort  of 
woolen  dress  with  broad  red  and  white  stripes, 
covered  her  head  with  a  kerchief,  and  went  out 
with  them. 

Cabinska  dressed  and  was  about  to  go  out, 
when  the  bell  rang.  A  small,  rather  corpulent 
and  very  active  gentleman  pushed  his  way  in. 
It  was  the  counselor. 

His  face  was  carefully  shaven,  he  wore  gold- 
rimmed  glasses  on  his  small  nose,  and  a  smile, 
that  seemed  glued  there,  on  his  thin  lips. 


The  Comedienne  129 

"May  I  come  in?  .  .  .  Will  Madame 
Directress  permit  it?  .  .  .  Only  for  a  minute, 
for  I  must  be  right  off  again!  .  .  . "  he  recited 
rapidly. 

"  Of  course,  the  esteemed  counselor  is 
always  welcome.  ..."  called  Cabinska, 
appearing. 

''Good  morning!  Pray  let  me  kiss  your 
little  hand.  .  .  .  You  look  charming  to-day. 
I  merely  dropped  in  here  on  my  way  ..." 

"  Please  be  seated." 

The  counselor  sat  down,  wiped  his  glasses 
with  his  handkerchief,  smoothed  his  very 
sparse,  but  ungrayed  black  hair,  hastily 
crossed  his  legs,  and  blinked  a  few  times  with 
neuralgic  eyes. 

"I  read  in  to-day's  Messenger  a  very  flatter- 
ing mention  about  you,  Madame  Directress." 

"It's  unmerited,  for  I  don't  know  how  that 
r61e  ought  to  be  played." 

"You  played  it  beautifully,  wonderfully!" 

"Oh,  you're  a  naughty  flatterer,  Mr.  Coun- 
selor! ..."  she  chided. 

"I  speak  nothing  but  the  truth,  the 
unadulterated  truth,  my  word  of  honor!" 

"Please  ma'am  it  is  already  noon,"  inter- 
rupted the  nurse,  who  had  returned. 


130  The  Comedienne 

"You  are  bound  for  the  theater,  Madame 
Directress?" 

"Yes,  I'll  drop  in  to  see  the  rehearsal,  and 
then  take  a  walk  about  town." 

"Then  we  will  go  together,  agreed?  .  .  ." 
asked  the  counselor.  "On  the  way  we  shall 
settle  a  little  piece  of  business." 

Cabinska  glanced  at  him  uneasily.  He  was 
again  blinking  his  eyes,  crossing  his  feet,  and 
adjusting  his  glasses  which  had  a  habit  of 
continually  slipping  off. 

"No  doubt  he  wants  that  money,  .  .  ." 
thought  Cabinska,  as  they  were  going  down 
the  stairs. 

The  counselor,  in  the  meanwhile,  was  smiling 
and  chirping  away  in  honeyed  tones. 

This  strange  individual  would  show  up  at 
the  garden-theater  at  the  very  first  perform- 
ance and  vanish  after  the  last,  until  the  follow- 
ing spring.  He  freely  loaned  money  which 
was  never  returned  to  him.  He  would  give 
suppers,  bring  gifts  of  candy  to  the  actresses, 
take  the  young  novices  under  his  wing  and 
was  always  reputed  to  be  in  love  with  some 
actress  platonically.  Immediately  upon  his 
first  appearance,  Cabinski  had  borrowed  one 
hundred  rubles  from  him — and  before  all 


The  Comedienne 


those  present  he  had  intentionally  forced  him 
to  accept  as  security  his  wife's  bracelet  with 
the  object  of  convincing  them  that  he  had  no 
money. 

They  entered  the  theater  and  quietly  took 
their  seats,  for  the  rehearsal  was  already  in  full 
swing  and  Kaczkowska  with  Topolski  were 
just  in  the  midst  of  a  capital  love  scene. 

The  counselor  listened,  bowed  on  all  sides 
with  a  smile  and  whispered  to  the  directress  : 
"  Love  is  a  splendid  thing  .  .  .  on  the  stage!" 

"Even  in  life  it  is  not  bad,"  she  re- 
marked. 

"True  love  is  very  rare  in  life,  so  I  prefer  it 
on  the  stage,  for  here  I  can  enjoy  it  every 
day,"  he  spoke  hurriedly,  and  his  eyelids 
began  to  blink  again. 

"You  have  been  disillusioned,  Counselor?" 

1  '  Oh  no,  by  no  means  !  .  .  .  How  are  you, 
Piesh!" 

"Well,  sated  with  food,  and  bored,"  replied 
a  tall  actor  with  a  handsome,  thoughtful  face, 
extending  his  hand. 

"Will  you  smoke  some  Egyptian  cigar- 
ettes?" 

"I  will,  if  you  will  let  me  have  some,"  he 
answered  coolly. 


132  The  Comedienne 

"Mrs.  Piesh  is  as  well  and  as  jealous  as 
ever,  eh?  .  .  ."  inquired  the  counselor,  hand- 
ing him  a  cigarette. 

"Just  as  you  are  always  in  a  good  humor 
.  .  .  Both  are  diseases." 

"So  you  consider  humor  a  disease,  eh?" 
asked  the  counselor. 

"I  hold  that  a  normal  man  ought  to  be 
indifferent  and  care  for  nothing." 

"How  long  have  you  been  riding  that 
hobbyhorse?" 

"Truth  is  usually  learned  late." 

"How  long  will  you  stick  to  that  truth? " 

"Perhaps  forever,  if  I  can  find  nothing 
better." 

"Piesh,  to  the  stage!"  came  the  voice  of  the 
stage-director. 

The  actor  arose  stiffly,  and  with  a  quick, 
automatic  step,  went  behind  the  scenes. 

"A  curious,  a  very  curious  fellow!"  whis- 
pered the  counselor. 

"Yes,  but  very  tiresome  with  his  ever* 
lasting  truths,  ideals,  and  other  foolish  haber- 
dashery!" cried  a  young  actor  dressed  like  a 
doll  in  a  light  suit,  a  pink-striped  shirt  and 
yellow  calf -skin  pumps. 

"Ah,    Wawrzecki!  .  .  .    You   must   have 


The  Comedienne 


again  slain  some  innocent  beauty,  for  your 
face  is  as  radiant  as  the  sun  ..." 

"It's  easy  for  you  to  joke,  Mr.  Counsel- 
or! .  .  ."he  defended  himself  with  a  know- 
ing smile,  advancing  his  shapely  foot.  He 
posed  gracefully,  raised  his  hand,  and  flashed 
his  jeweled  rings,  for  the  directress  was  gaz- 
ing at  him  through  half-closed  eyes. 

"Well  then,  in  your  estimation  who  is  not 
tiresome,  eh?  ...  Come  now,  confess  my 
boy!" 

"The  counselor,  for  he  has  humor  and  a 
good  heart;  the  director  when  he  pays;  the 
public  when  it  applauds  us;  pretty  and  kind 
women,  the  spring,  if  it  is  warm;  people,  when 
they  are  happy  —  all  that  is  beautiful  pleas- 
ant and  smiling;  while  tiresome  things  are  all 
those  that  are  ugly:  cares,  tears,  suffering, 
poverty,  old  age  and  cold.  ..." 

"Who  is  that  young  lady  over  there?" 
inquired  the  counselor,  pointing  to  Janina 
who  was  listening  attentively  to  the  rehearsal. 

"A  novice." 

"She  has  an  engaging  expression.  Her 
face  shows  good  breeding  and  intelligence. 
Do  you  know  who  she  is?  .  .  .  " 

"Wicek!"  called  Cabinska  to  the  boy  who 


134  The  Comedienne 

was  playing  about  the  garden,  "go  and  ask 
that  lady,  standing  near  the  box,  to  come 
here." 

Wicek  ran  over  to  Janina  circled  about  her, 
glanced  into  her  eyes  and  said:  "The  old 
woman  over  there  wishes  to  see  you." 

"What  old  woman?  .  .  .  Who?  ..."  she 
asked,  unable  to  understand  him. 

"Cabinska,  Mrs.  Pepa,  the  directress,  of 
course!  ..." 

Janina  approached  slowly,  while  the  coun- 
selor observed  her  intently. 

"Please  have  a  seat,  mademoiselle.  This 
is  our  dear  counselor,  the  patron  of  our 
theater,"  spoke  Cabinska,  introducing  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon !"  cried  the  counselor, 
grasping  her  hand  and  turning  the  palm  to  the 
light. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Miss  Orlowska!  .  .  . 
The  counselor  has  an  innocent  mania  of  for- 
tune telling,"  cried  Cabinska  merrily,  peering 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  counselor  into  the 
palm  he  was  examining. 

"Ho!  ho!  a  strange  one,  a  strange  one!" 
whispered  the  old  man. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  magnif ying- 
glass  and  through  it  examined  minutely  the 


The  Comedienne  135 

lines  of  the  palm,  the  fingernails,  the  finger 
joints,  and  the  entire  hand. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen!  We  tell  fortunes 
here  from  the  hands,  the  feet,  and  something 
else  besides!  .  .  .  Here  we  predict  the  future, 
and  dispense  talent,  virtue,  and  money  in  the 
future.  Admission  only  five  copecks,  only  five 
copecks!  .  .  .  for  the  poorer  people  only  ten 
groszy!  Please  step  in,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
please  step  in!"  cried  Wawrzecki,  excellently 
imitating  the  voice  of  the  show  criers  on 
Ujazdowski  Square. 

The  actors  and  actresses  surrounded  the  trio 
on  all  sides. 

"Tell  us  something,  Mr.  Counselor!" 

"Will  she  marry  soon?" 

"When  will  she  eclipse  Modrzejewska? " 

"Will  she  get  a  rich  hubby?" 

"How  many  suitors  has  she  had  in  the 
past?" 

The  counselor  did  not  answer,  but  quietly 
continued  to  examine  both  of  Janina's  palms. 

She  heard  those  derisive  remarks,  but  was 
unable  to  move,  for  that  strange  man  actually 
held  her  pinned  to  her  seat.  She  felt  herself 
burning  with  anger,  yet  could  not  move  her 
hands  which  he  held. 


136  The  Comedienne 

Finally,  the  counselor  released  her  and  said 
to  those  surrounding  them:  "For  once  you 
might  refrain  from  your  clownishness,  for 
sometimes  it  is  not  so  foolish  as  it  is  inhuman. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle,  for  having 
exposed  you  to  their  rudeness;  ...  I  greatly 
beg  your  pardon,  but  I  simply  could  not  resist 
examining  your  hands;  that  is  my  weak- 
ness. .  .  . " 

He  kissed  her  hand  ostentatiously  and 
turned  to  the  surprised  Cabinska:  "Come,  let 
us  go,  Mrs.  Directress!" 

Janina  was  consumed  with  such  curiosity, 
that,  in  spite  of  all  those  spectators,  she  asked 
quietly:  "Will  you  not  tell  me  anything  Mr. 
Counselor?" 

The  counselor  gazed  about  him,  and  then 
bent  toward  Janina  and  whispered  very 
quietly:  "Now,  I  cannot  .  .  .  In  two  weeks, 
when  I  return,  I  will  tell  you  all." 

"Oh  come,  Counselor!"  cried  Cabinska, 
"Oh,  I  almost  forgot !  .  .  .  Will  it  be  possible 
for  you  to  come  to  see  me  after  the  rehearsal 
Miss  Orlowska?  "  she  asked,  turning  to  Janina. 

"Certainly,  I'll  come,"  answered  Janina, 
resuming  her  seat. 

"Where  shall  we  go,  Madame  Directress?" 


The  Comedienne 


asked  the  counselor.  He  seemed  less  jovial, 
and  wrapt  in  thought. 

"I  suppose  we  might  go  to  my  pastry 
shop." 

Cabinska  did  not  question  him,  and  only 
after  they  had  seated  themselves  at  the  pastry 
shop,  where  she  regularly  spent  a  few  hours 
each  day,  drinking  chocolate,  smoking  ciga- 
rettes, and  gazing  at  the  street  crowds,  did  she 
venture  to  ask  him  with  a  pretended  indiffer- 
ence: "What  did  you  notice  in  that  hussy's 
hands,  Mr.  Counselor?" 

The  counselor  shifted  impatiently,  put  his 
binoculars  upon  his  nose,  and  called  to  the 
waiter,  "Black  coffee  and  very  light  choco- 
late!" 

Then  he  turned  to  Cabinska.  "You  see, 
that  is  a  secret  ...  to  be  sure,  one  that 
means  little,  but  nevertheless,  not  my  own  to 
disclose." 

Cabinska  insisted,  for  merely  to  say:  "a 
secret,"  throws  all  women  out  of  balance;  but 
he  told  her  nothing,  only  remarking  abruptly, 
"I  am  leaving  town,  Mrs.  Directress." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  inquired, 
greatly  surprised. 

'  '  I  must  .  .  .  "  he  said,  '  '  I  will  return  in  two 


The  Comedienne 


weeks.  Before  I  go,  I  would  like  to  settle 
our  .  .  ." 

Cabinska  frowned  and  waited  to  hear  what 
he  would  say  further. 

"For  you  see,  it  might  happen  that  I  would 
return  only  in  the  fall  when  you  will  no  longer 
be  in  Warsaw." 

"I  surmised  long  ago  that  you  were  an  old 
usurer,"  Cabinska  was  thinking,  tinkling  her 
glass  with  a  spoon. 

"Some  fruit  cakes!"  he  called  to  the  waiter 
and  then,  turning  to  her  again,  continued  .  .  . 
'  '  And  that  is  why  I  wish  to  return  to  you,  dear 
lady,  your  bracelet." 

"But  we  have  not  yet  the  money.  Our 
success  is  continually  being  interrupted  .  .  . 
we  have  so  many  old  payments  to  meet  ..." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  the  money. 
Imagine  that  I  am  giving  you  this  for  your 
name  day  as  a  small  token  of  friendship  .  .  . 
will  you?  "  he  asked,  slipping  the  bracelet  upon 
her  plump  wrist. 

"Oh,  Counselor,  Counselor!  if  I  did  not  love 
my  John  so  much,  I  would  ..."  she  cried, 
overjoyed  at  regaining  her  bracelet  without 
any  obligations.  She  squeezed  his  hands  so 
heartily  and  beamed  upon  him  with  her  joyous 


The  Comedienne  139 

gaze  so  closely,  that  he  felt  her  breath  upon 
his  cheeks. 

He  gently  pushed  her  aside,  biting  his  lips. 

"Ah,  Counselor,  you  are  an  ideal  man!" 

"Oh,  let  us  drop  that!  .  .  .  You  can 
invite  me  to  be  a  godfather  to  your  next 
child.'1 

"Oh,  you're  a  rogue,  Mr.  Counselor!  .  .  . 
What's  that?  ...  you  already  want  to 
depart?" 

"My  train  leaves  in  two  hours.  Good- 
bye!" 

He  paid  the  bill  at  the  buffet  and  hurried 
away,  sending  her  a  smile  through  the  window. 

Cabinska  still  sat  there,  gazing  out  upon  the 
street. 

"Is  it  possible  that  he  loves  me?" 
she  thought  to  herself,  sipping  her  cooled 
chocolate. 

She  pulled  some  r61e  out  of  her  pocket,  read 
a  few  lines,  and  again  gazed  out  upon  the 
street. 

The  dilapidated  hacks,  pulled  by  lean 
horses,  dragged  along  lazily;  the  tramways 
rumbled  by;  along  the  sidewalks  people 
threaded  like  a  long,  immovable  ribbon. 

The  clock  chimed  three.     Cabinska  arose 


140  The  Comedienne 

+ 

and  started  for  home,  walking  slowly  until 
she  spied  the  editor  walking  with  Nicolette 
and  the  calm  horizon  of  her  mind  suddenly 
became  clouded. 

"He,  with  Nicolette?  .  .  .  with  that  .  .  . 
base  intriguer?" 

Already  from  a  distance  she  scorched  them 
with  the  gaze  of  a  Gorgon. 

At  the  corner  of  Warecka  Street,  Nicolette 
suddenly  disappeared  and  the  editor  ap- 
proached her  with  a  beaming  countenance. 

"  Good  morning!  .  .  ."he  cried,  extending 
his  hand. 

Pepa  measured  him  coolly  and  turned  her 
face  away. 

"What  sort  of  nonsense  is  this,  Pepa?"  he 
asked,  quietly. 

"Oh,  you  are  unspeakably  mean!"  she 
retorted. 

"A  comedy  of  some  kind  again?  .  .  ."  he 
queried. 

"You  dare  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way?" 

"Well  .  .  .  I'll  quit  then  and  merely  say: 
good-day!"  he  snapped  back  angrily,  bowed 
stiffly  and,  before  she  could  bethink  herself, 
jumped  into  a  hack  and  drove  away. 

Cabinska  was  petrified  with  indignation. 


The  Comedienne 


Cabinska,  on  returning  home  whipped  the 
children,  scolded  the  nurse,  and  locked  herself 
in  her  room. 

She  heard  her  husband  enter,  askfor  her,  and 
knock  at  her  door  ;  when  dinner  was  served,  she 
did  not  come  out,  but  paced  angrily  up  and 
down  her  room. 

Soon  thereafter,  Janina  arrived.  Cabinska 
greeted  her  cordially  in  her  boudoir,  becom- 
ing suddenly  unrecognizably  hospitable. 

Janina  left  alone,  began  to  explore  that 
boudoir  with  curiosity,  for,  although  the  entire 
house  looked  like  a  junk  shop,  or  a  railroad 
waiting-room  of  the  third  class,  filled  with 
packs,  valises  and  trunks,  this  one  room 
possessed  an  almost  luxurious  air.  It  had 
two  windows  opening  upon  the  garden,  the 
walls  were  decorated  with  a  paper  resembling 
brocatelle,  and  cupids  were  painted  on  the 
ceiling.  The  grotesquely  carved  furniture 
was  upholstered  with  crimson  silk  striped  with 
gold.  A  cream-colored  rug  in  imitation  of 
antique  Italian  covered  the  floor.  A  set  of 
Shakespeare,  bound  in  gilded  morocco  lay  on  a 
lacquered  table  painted  in  Chinese  designs. 

Janina  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  all 
this,  for  she  was  entirely  absorbed  by  the 


i42  The  Comedienne 

wreaths  hanging  on  the  walls  which  bore  such 
inscriptions  as  these:  "To  our  companion  on 
the  occasion  of  her  birthday,"  "To  a  distin- 
guished artist,"  "From  the  grateful  public," 
"To  the  Directress — from  the  Company," 
"From  the  admirers  of  your  talent."  The 
laurel  branches  and  palm  leaves  were  yellow 
and  shrunken  from  age  and  hung  there  cov- 
ered with  dust  and  cobwebs.  The  broad 
white,  yellow,  and  red  ribbons  streamed  down 
the  walls  like  separate  colors  of  the  rainbow 
with  their  gold-stamped  letters  proclaiming 
glories  that  had  long  since  passed  into  oblivion. 
Those  inscriptions  and  withered  wreaths  gave 
the  room  the  appearance  of  a  mortuary 
chapel. 

Janina  was  looking  through  an  album,  when 
Cabinska  quietly  entered.  Her  face  wore  an 
expression  of  suffering  and  melancholy;  she 
dropped  down  heavily  into  a  chair,  sighed 
deeply  and  whispered,  "Pardon  me  for  letting 
you  bore  yourself  here." 

" Oh  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  bored! " 

"This  is  my  sanctuary.  Here  I  lock  myself 
up  when  life  becomes  unbearable.  I  come 
here  to  recall  a  happy  past  and  to  dream  of 
that  which  will  never  more  return  .  ."  she 


The  Comedienne  143 

added,  indicating  the  r61es  and  the  wreaths 
hanging  on  the  walls. 

"Are  you  ill,  Madame  Directress?  .  .  . 
perhaps  I  am  intruding,  and  solitude  is  the 
best  medicine."  Janina  spoke  with  sincere 
sympathy. 

"Oh,  please  stay!  ...  It  affords  me  real 
relief  to  speak  with  a  person  who  is,  as  yet, 
a  stranger  to  this  world  of  falsehood  and 
vanity!"  she  said  with  emphasis,  as  though 
reciting  a  r61e. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  am  worthy  of 
your  confidence,"  answered  Janina  modestly. 

"Oh,  my  artistic  intuition  never  deceives 
me!  ...  I  pray  you  sit  nearer  to  me!  So 
you  have  never  before  been  in  the  theater, 
mademoiselle?" 

"No." 

"How  I  envy  you!  .  .  .  Ah,  if  I  could 
begin  over  again,  I  would  not  know  all  this 
bitterness  and  disappointment !  Do  you  love 
the  theater?" 

"I  have  sacrificed  almost  everything  for  it." 

"Oh,  the  fate  of  artists  is  a  sad  one!  One 
must  sacrifice  all;  peace,  domestic  happiness, 
love,  family,  and  friends — and  for  what?  .  .  . 
for  that  which  they  write  about  us;  for  such 


144  The  Comedienne 

wreaths  that  last  only  a  few  days;  for  the 
handclaps  of  the  tiresome  throng.  .  .  .  Oh, 
beware  the  provinces,  mademoiselle!  .  .  . 
Look  at  me  .  .  .  Do  you  see  those  wreaths? 
.  .  .  They  are  splendid  and  withered,  are  they 
not?  And  yet,  not  so  long  ago  I  played  at 
Lwow.  ..." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  as  though  fas- 
cinated by  the  memory  of  those  days. 

"The  stages  of  the  whole  world  were  open  to 
me.  The  director  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise 
came  purposely  to  see  me  and  offer  me  an 
engagement.  ..." 

"You  possess  also  a  mastery  of  French, 
madame?" 

"Do  not  interrupt  me.  I  was  paid  a  salary 
of  several  thousand  rubles;  the  papers  could 
not  find  words  strong  enough  to  praise  my 
acting;  I  was  pelted  with  flowers  and  brace- 
lets set  with  diamonds!  (She  unconsciously 
adjusted  her  cheap  bracelet.)  Counts  and 
princes  courted  my  favors.  .  .  .  Then  came 
a  great  misfortune  which  changed  everything; 
I  fell  in  love  .  .  .  Yes,  do  not  wonder  at  that! 
I  loved,  as  deeply  as  it  is  possible  to  love,  the 
most  beautiful  and  best  man  in  the  whole 
world.  .  .  .  He  was  a  nobleman,  a  prince 


The  Comedienne  145 

and  heir  to  a  large  estate.  We  were  about  to 
be  married.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  we 
were!  .  .  .  Then  .  .  .  like  a  bolt  from  the 
blue  sky  ...  his  family,  the  old  prince,  a 
tyrannical  magnate  without  a  heart  parted 
us.  ...  He  took  him  away  and  wanted  to 
pay  me  a  hundred  thousand  guldens  or  even  a 
million,  if  only  I  would  renounce  my  beloved. 
I  threw  the  money  at  his  feet  and  showed  him 
the  door.  He  avenged  himself  cruelly.  He 
spread  the  most  dishonorable  calumnies  about 
me,  bribed  the  press,  and  persecuted  me  at 
every  step,  the  base  wretch!  ...  I  had  to 
leave  Lwow  and  my  life  took  an  entirely 
different  turn  .  .  .  a  different  turn  .  .  ." 

Cabinska  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
tears  in  her  eyes,  love  in  her  smile,  a  sad 
bitterness  upon  her  lips,  a  tragic  mask  of 
resignation  upon  her  face,  forsaken,  violent 
grief  in  her  voice. 

She  acted  the  tale  with  such  mastery  that 
Janina  believed  everything. 

"If  you  knew  how  sincerely  I  sympathize 
with  you,  madame!  .  .  .  What  a  dreadful 
fate!" 

"That  is  already  past!  .  .  ."  answered 
Cabinska,  dropping  into  her  chair. 


The  Comedienne 


She  herself  had  come  almost  to  believe  in 
those  stories,  retold  with  numerous  variations 
a  hundred  times  over  to  all  those  who  were 
willing  to  listen.  Sometimes,  on  ending  her 
account,  moved  by  the  picture  of  that  fancied 
misfortune,  she  would  actually  suffer. 

Cabinska  had  acted  the  parts  of  so  many 
unfortunate  and  betrayed  women  that  she 
had  already  lost  all  memory  of  the  bounds  of 
her  own  individuality;  her  own  emotions 
became  merged  and  identified  in  ever  greater 
degree  with  the  characters  which  she  imper- 
sonated, and  thus  it  happened  that  her  fanciful 
tales  were  not  downright  lies. 

After  a  long  silence,  Cabinska  asked  in  a 
calm  voice,  "You  live  at  Mrs.  Sowinska's, 
mademoiselle?" 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Janina,  "I  have 
already  rented  the  room,  but  they  have  to 
renovate  it.  In  the  meanwhile,  I  am  living 
at  the  hotel." 

"Kaczkowska  and  Halt  told  me  that  you 
play  the  piano  very  well." 

"A  little  bit." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,  if  you  would  not 
teach  my  Yadzia?  .  .  .  She  is  a  very  bright 
girl  and  has  a  good  ear  for  music." 


The  Comedienne  H7 

"With  real  pleasure.  My  knowledge  is 
rather  limited,  but  I  can  teach  your  daughter 
the  rudiments  of  music.  .  .  .  Only,  I  don't 
know  whether  I  will  have  enough  time.  .  .  . " 

"Oh,  certainly!  And  as  to  your  fee,  we 
shall  include  that  in  your  salary." 

"Very  well.  ...  Is  your  daughter  already 
started?" 

"Excellently.  You  can  convince  yourself 
immediately.  .  .  .  Nurse,  bring  Yadzia 
here!"  called  Cabinska. 

They  passed  into  the  next  room  in  which 
stood  the  director's  bed,  a  few  packs  and 
baskets,  and  an  old  rattle-box  of  a  piano. 

Janina  heard  Yadzia  play  and  agreed  that 
she  would  give  her  lessons  regularly  between 
two  and  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when 
her  parents  were  not  at  home. 

"When  are  you  to  make  your  first  appear- 
ance at  the  theater?"  asked  Cabinska. 

"To-day,  in  the  Gypsy  Baron.11 

"Have  you  a  costume?" 

"Miss   Falkowska   promised   to   loan    me 


one." 


"Come    with    me.  .  .  .  Perhaps    I'll   find 
something  for  you.  ..." 

They  went  into  the  room  where  the  children 


The  Comedienne 


slept  with  the  nurse.  Cabinska  pulled  out  of 
a  package  a  fairly  well-preserved  costume 
and  gave  it  to  Janina. 

"You  see,  mademoiselle,  we  furnish  the 
costumes,  but  since  the  members  of  the  com- 
pany prefer  to  have  their  own,  because  ours,  of 
course,  cannot  be  so  very  elegant,  ours  often 
lie  here  unused.  ...  I  will  loan  you  this 
one." 

"I  also  will  have  my  own." 

"  That  is  best." 

They  took  leave  of  each  other  very  cordially 
and  the  nurse  carried  Janina'  s  costume  after 
her  to  the  hotel. 

With  such  passionate  eagerness  did  Janina 
anticipate  her  first  appearance  on  the  stage, 
that  she  arrived  at  the  theater  when  there  was 
hardly  anyone  as  yet  behind  the  scenes.  The 
chorus  girls  assembled  slowly  and  dressed 
even  more  slowly.  Conversation,  laughter, 
subdued  whisperings  went  on  as  usual,  but  she 
heard  nothing,  so  preoccupied  was  she  with 
her  dressing. 

They  all  began  to  help  her,  laughing  because 
she  did  not  even  have  powder  or  rouge. 

"What,  you  never  powdered  yourself?" 
they  chorused. 


The  Comedienne  149 

"No  .  .  .  What  for?  ..."  she  an- 
swered simply. 

"  We'll  have  to  make  her  a  face,  for  she's  too 
pale,"  remarked  one  of  them. 

They  rubbed  her  face  with  a  layer  of  white 
cosmetic,  shaded  this  with  rouge,  carmined  her 
lips,  underscored  her  eyes  with  a  little  pencil 
dipped  in  black  pigment,  and  curled  and 
pinned  her  hair.  She  was  passed  on  from 
hand  to  hand  and  given  a  thousand  advices 
and  warnings. 

"On  entering  the  stage  look  straight  at  the 
public,  so  that  you  don't  trip." 

"And  before  you  enter,  see  that  you  cross 
yourself." 

"Always  enter  with  your  right  foot  fore- 
most." 

"  Now  you  look  fine !  .  .  .  but  do  you  want 
to  appear  on  the  stage  in  short  skirts  without 
wearing  tights?" 

"I  haven't  any!  ..." 

All  began  to  laugh  at  her  embarrassed  look. 

"I  will  loan  you  a  pair,"  cried  Zielinska. 
"I  think  they'll  fit  you."  They  treated  her 
with  undisguised  favor,  for  they  had  heard 
that  she  was  to  teach  Cabinska's  daughter  and 
that  Pepa  had  loaned  her  a  costume. 


The  Comedienne 


Janina,  looking  in  the  mirror,  hardly  recog- 
nized herself.  It  seemed  as  though  she  wore 
a  mask,  only  slightly  resembling  her  own  face 
and  with  that  strange  expression  that  all  the 
chorus  girls  wore. 

She  went  downstairs  to  Sowinska. 

"  My  dear  madame,  tell  me  truly,  how  do  I 
look?"  she  begged,  all  excited  and  flushed. 

Sowinska  scrutinized  her  from  all  sides  and, 
with  her  finger,  spread  the  rouge  more  thor- 
oughly on  her  cheeks. 

"Who  gave  you  that  costume?"  she  asked. 

"Madame  Directress  loaned  it  to  me." 

"Oh!  something  must  have  melted  her  to- 
day!" 

"She  told  me  such  sad  stories.  ..." 

"The  actress!  ...  if  she  only  played  that 
way  on  the  stage  there  would  be  no  better  in 
the  world." 

"You  must  be  joking,  madame!  .  .  .  She 
told  me  about  Lwow  and  her  past." 

"She's  a  liar,  that  old  hag!  She  was  then 
the  sweetheart  of  some  hussar  and  made  such 
scandals  that  they  turned  her  out  of  the  theater. 
What  was  she  at  the  Lwow  theater?  ...  a 
chorus  girl  only.  Ho!  ho!  those  are  old  tricks. 
.  .  .  We  all  know  them  here  long  since!" 


The  Comedienne  I51 

"Tell  me  how  I  look?"  asked  Janina  at 
length. 

"Beautiful.  .  .  .  I'll  wager  they'll  all  be 
chasing  after  you!" 

An  increasing  nervousness  seized  Janina. 
She  walked  up  and  down  the  stage,  peered 
through  the  hole  in  the  curtain,  viewed  herself 
in  all  the  mirrors,  and  then  tried  to  sit  still  and 
wait,  but  could  not  endure  it.  The  feverish 
excitement  and  nervousness  attendant  upon 
a  first  appearance  shook  her  as  with  the  ague. 
She  could  not  stand  or  sit  still  for  a  single 
moment. 

It  seemed  as  though  she  did  not  see  the 
people,  the  preparations  that  were  going  on 
about  her,  the  lights,  or  even  the  stage  itself, 
but  only  had  in  her  brain  the  reflection  of  a 
confused  and  moving  mass  of  eyes  and  faces. 
At  each  moment  she  would  gaze  with  terror 
at  the  audience  and  feel  as  though  her  heart 
were  ceasing  to  beat. 

When  the  bell  rang  for  the  second  time,  she 
hurried  off  the  stage  and  took  her  place  in  the 
chorus  that  was  already  assembled  behind  the 
scenes ;  while  waiting  for  the  moment  to  enter, 
she  unconsciously  crossed  herself,  and  her 
whole  body  trembled  so  violently  that  one  of 


i52  The  Comedienne 

the  chorus  girls,  noticing  her  confusion,  took 
her  by  the  arm. 

"Enter!"  shouted  the  stage-director.  The 
throng  carried  her  along  with  it  and  pushed 
her  to  the  front  of  the  stage. 

The  sudden  silence  and  magnified  glare  of 
light  restored  her  senses  somewhat,  and  after 
leaving  the  stage  she  stood  behind  one 
of  the  scenes  and  completely  regained  her 
composure. 

On  her  second  entrance  she  felt  only  a  slight 
tremor.  She  sang,  heard  the  music,  and  gazed 
straight  at  the  public.  She  was  also  embold- 
ened by  seeing  the  editor  sitting  in  the  front 
row  and  encouraging  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 
She  kept  looking  at  him  and  after  that  she 
was  able  to  distinguish  with  increasing  clear- 
ness individual  faces  in  the  audience. 

In  some  scene  in  which  the  chorus  prom- 
enaded about  the  back  of  the  stage,  while 
a  comic  dialogue  was  going  on  at  the  front, 
Janina's  companions  indulged  in  whispered 
conversations. 

"Brona,  look!  Your  fellow  is  there  in  the 
third  row  toward  the  left." 

"Oh  look!  Dasha  is  in  the  theater  .  .  . 
goodness,  how  she  is  dolled  up.  ..." 


The  Comedienne  i53 

"Siwinska!  fasten  my  hooks,  for  I  feel  my 
skirt  is  falling  down." 

"  Lou!  your  wig  is  coming  off." 

"Look  to  your  own  shags!" 

"I'm  going  to  Marceline  with  someone 
to-morrow  .  .  .  perhaps  you  will  go  with  us, 
Zielinska?" 

"Look  at  the  eyes  that  student  is  making 
at  me!" 

41 1  don't  care  a  snap  for  penniless  plugs." 

"But  what  merry  chaps  they  are!" 

"No,  thank  you!  They  have  nothing  but 
whiskey  and  sardines.  That's  a  treat,  only 
for  those  of  the  street." 

"Hush!     Cabinska  is  sitting  in  that  box." 

"My  gracious,  what  a  maidenly  make-up 
she  has  to-day!" 

"Quiet,  we  sing!" 

Behind  the  scenes  stood  a  great  variety  of 
people:  waitresses,  stage-hands,  restaurant 
boys,  and  actors  waiting  for  their  cues  to 
enter — all  these  were  gazing  on  the  stage. 

Cabinska' s  nurse,  with  the  two  eldest  chil- 
dren, was  sitting  near  the  proscenium  under 
the  ropes  of  the  curtain. 

Wawrzecki  from  behind  the  scenes  was 
violently  beckoning  to  Mimi  who  was  just 


154  The  Comedienne 

then  singing  a  duet  with  Wladek.  In  the 
pauses,  the  actress  would  spitefully  stick  out 
her  tongue  at  him. 

"Give  me  the  key  to  the  house  ...  I  for- 
got my  shoes,  and  I  need  them  right  away!" 
he  whispered. 

"It's  in  my  skirt  pocket  in  the  dressing- 
room,"  she  answered,  backing  away  toward 
the  center  of  the  stage  with  a  broad  musical 
phrase  on  her  lips. 

"Halt"  was  banging  the  desk  with  his 
baton,  for  Wladek  was  cutting  short  his  tones 
and  continually  wavering.  The  threatening 
anger  of  the  orchestra  director  only  made 
him  all  the  more  nervous,  and  his  singing  was 
growing  steadily  worse. 

' '  The  damned  Hun  is  purposely  trying  to  trip 
me!"  he  muttered  angrily  under  his  breath, 
embracing  the  singing  Mimi  in  the  love  scene. 

1 '  For  God's  sake  don't  squeeze  me  so  hard ! " 
panted  Mimi,  at  the  same  time  smiling  at  him 
rapturously. 

"For  I  adore  you  with  the  frenzy  of  love 
.  .  .  for  I  adore  you!"  sang  Wladek  with 
fiery  intonation. 

"Are  you  crazy?  I  will  be  all  black  and 
blue  and  .  ." 


The  Comedienne  155 

She  suddenly  broke  off,  for  Wladek  had 
finished  his  song  and  the  applause  came 
roaring  like  an  avalanche,  so  she  pulled  him 
by  the  hand  and  they  walked  to  the  front  of 
the  stage  to  bow  to  the  audience. 

During  the  intermission  Janina  observed 
the  editor  standing  in  the  center  aisle,  con- 
versing with  some  stout,  blond  man. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  with  what  paper  that 
editor  is  connected?"  Janina  asked  the  stage- 
director,  who  was  supervising  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  scenery  for  the  next  act. 

11  With  no  paper,  probably.  He's  merely  a 
theatrical  critic." 

"  He  told  me  himself  that  ..." 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  stage-director,  "I 
see  you're  green!" 

"But  he  is  sitting  in  the  chairs  reserved  for 
the  press,"  persisted  Janina  stating  what  she 
thought  was  a  convincing  argument. 

' '  What  of  that  ?  There  are  more  of  his  kind 
there.  Do  you  see  that  light  blonde?  He 
alone  is  a  real  writer  and  the  rest  are  merely 
migratory  birds.  God  alone  knows  what 
their  occupation  is  ...  but  since  they  hob- 
nob with  everybody,  talk  a  lot,  have  money 
from  somewhere,  and  occupy  the  foremost 


The  Comedienne 


places  everywhere,  no  one  even  bothers  asking 
who  they  are.'* 

"Ah,  you  look  so  fascinating,  so  fascinat- 
ing/' cried  the  editor  at  that  instant  rushing  in 
upon  the  stage  and  already  from  a  distance 
extending  his  hands  to  her.  "A  veritable 
portrait  by  Greuze!  Only  a  little  more 
courage  and  everything  will  go  smoothly. 
I  will  insert  an  item  to-morrow  about  your 
first  appearance  on  the  stage." 

11  Thank  you,"  she  answered  coolly,  without 
looking  at  him. 

The  editor  turned  about  and  made  off  for 
the  actors'  dressing-room. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen!"  he  called 
entering. 

"How  are  things  going  in  the  hall?  Were 
you  at  the  box  office?  ..." 

"Nearly  all  the  seats  are  sold  out." 

"How  is  the  play  taking?" 

"Well,  very  well!  ...  I  see,  Mr.  Director 
that  you  have  replenished  the  chorus:  that 
charming,  new  blonde  attracts  all  eyes.  .  .  ." 

"Good,  good.  .  .  .  Hurry  there,  give  me 
my  belly!" 

"Mr.  Director,  please  let  me  have  an  order 
for  two  rubles.  I  must  immediately  send  for 


The  Comedienne  15  7 

my  boots,"  begged  some  actor,  hastily  pulling 
on  his  costume. 

"After  the  performance!"  answered  Cabin- 
ski,  holding  the  pillow  to  his  stomach,  "tie  it 
fast,  Andy!" 

They  wrapt  him  about  with  long  strips  like 
a  mummy. 

"Mr.  Director,  I  need  my  boots  on  the 
stage.  .  .  .  I  cannot  play  without  them !" 

"Go  to  the  devil,  my  dear  sir,  and  don't 
disturb  me  now.  .  .  .  Ring!"  he  called  to  the 
stage-director. 

Cabinski,  whenever  he  played,  created  a  big 
confusion  in  the  dressing-room.  He  always 
suffered  from  stage  fright,  so  he  would  try  to 
overcome  it  by  shouting,  scolding,  and  quar- 
reling over  every  trifle.  The  costumer,  the 
tailor,  the  property  man  all  had  to  hustle  about 
him  and  continually  remind  him  lest  he  forget 
something.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  always 
commenced  dressing  early,  he  was  always  late. 
Only  on  the  stage  did  he  recover  his 
equanimity. 

Now  it  was  the  same;  his  cane  had  been 
mislaid  and  he  rushed  about,  wildly  shouting : 
"My  cane!  Who  took  my  cane!  .  .  .  My 
cane !  Damn  it !  I  must  go  right  on ! " 


158  The  Comedienne 

"  You  snort  like  an  elephant  in  the  dressing- 
room,  but  on  the  stage  you  buzz  as  quietly  as  a 
fly, "  slowly  remarked  Stanislawski,  who  hated 
all  noises. 

"If  you  don't  like  to  hear  it,  go  out  into  the 
hall." 

"I'll  stay  right  here,  and  I  want  quiet.  No 
one  can  dress  in  peace  with  you  around." 

"Podesta,  to  the  stage!"  called  the  stage- 
director. 

Cabinski  ran  out,  grabbed  a  cane  out  of 
somebody's  hand,  tied  a  black  handkerchief 
about  his  neck  and  rushed  on  the  stage. 

Stanislawski  departed  behind  the  scenes, 
all  the  others  dispersed,  and  the  dressing-room 
became  deserted,  only  the  tailor  remaining 
to  gather  up  the  costumes  scattered  over  the 
floor  and  tables  and  take  them  to  the  store- 
room. 

In  the  dressing-room  of  the  leading  ladies  of 
the  caste  such  a  storm  had  broken  loose  that 
Cabinski,  who  was  just  leaving  the  stage,  went 
there  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters. 

As  he  entered,  Kaczkowska  threw  herself 
at  him  from  one  side  and  Mimi  from  the 
other;  both  grasped  him  by  the  hands  and  each 
sought  to  out-shout  the  other. 


The  Comedienne  159 

"If  you  allow  such  things  to  happen, 
Director,  I  will  leave  the  company!  ..." 

"It's  a  scandal,  Director!  .  .  .  everybody 
saw  it.  ...  I  will  not  stay  in  her  company 
another  hour!" 

"Director!  she  ..." 

"Now  don't  lie!" 

"It's  insulting!" 

"It's  base  and  ridiculous!" 

"For  God's  sake!  what's  all  this  about?" 
cried  Cabinski  in  desperation. 

"I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened,  Director. 

» » 

"  It  is  I  who  ought  to  tell,  for  she  is  a  liar ! " 

"Now  my  dears,  please  be  quiet  or  I  swear 
I'll  go  right  out." 

"It  was  this  way.  I  received  a  bouquet, 
for  it  was  most  plainly  intended  for  me,  and 
this  .  .  .  lady,  who  happened  to  be  standing 
nearer,  cut  me  off  and  took  my  bouquet. 
.  .  .  And,  instead  of  giving  it  to  me,  to  whom 
it  belonged,  she  brazenly  bowed  and  kept  it  for 
herself!"  cried  Kaczkowska  amid  tears  and 
bursts  of  anger. 

At  that  Mimi  began  to  cry. 

"Mimi,  you  will  blur  the  paint  under  your 
eyes!"  called  someone. 


160  The  Comedienne 

Mimi  immediately  stopped  crying. 

"What  do  you  ladies  want  me  to  do?" 
asked  Cabinski,  when  he  found  an  opportunity 
to  speak. 

"Tell  her  to  give  me  back  that  bouquet 
and  apologize." 

"I  can,  but  with  my  fist  ..."  retorted 
Mimi.  "You  can  ask  the  chorus,  Director 
.  .  .  they  all  saw." 

"The  chorus  from  the  fourth  act!"  called 
Cabinski  behind  the  scenes. 

There  entered  a  throng  of  women  and  men  al- 
ready half -undressed,  and  among  them  Janina. 

"Well,  let  us  arrange  a  judgment  of 
Solomon!" 

An  increasing  number  of  onlookers  began  to 
crowd  into  the  dressing-room  and  derisive 
remarks,  aimed  at  the  generally  disliked 
Kaczkowska,  flew  about. 

"Who  saw  to  whom  the  bouquet  was 
given?"  asked  Cabinski. 

"We  weren't  taking  notice,"  all  replied, 
unwilling  to  incur  the  disfavor  of  either  of 
the  contestants.  Only  Janina  who  detested 
injustice,  finally  said : ' '  The  bouquet  was  given 
to  Miss  Zarzecka.  I  stood  beside  her  and 
saw  distinctly." 


The  Comedienne  161 

''What  does  that  calf  want  here?  She  came 
from  the  street  and  thinks  she  can  interfere 
in  what's  none  of  her  business!"  cried  Kacz- 
kowska. 

Janina  advanced,  her  voice  hoarse  with  anger. 

1 '  You  have  no  right  to  insult  me,  madame ! " 
she  cried.  " Do  you  hear!  I  haven't  ever  let 
anyone  insult  me,  nor  will  I ! " 

A  strange  silence  suddenly  fell,  for  all  were 
impressed  by  the  dignity  and  force  of  Janina's 
words.  She  glared  at  Kaczkowska  with  glow- 
ing eyes  and  then  turned  on  her  heel  and  left 
the  room. 

Cabinski  had  fled  to  the  box  office  after 
hastily  divesting  himself  of  his  costume. 

"Whew!  she's  a  sound  nut,  that  new  one." 

"Kaczkowska  will  never  forgive  her 
that  ..." 

"What  can  she  do?  .  .  .  Miss  Orlowska  has 
the  backing  of  the  management." 

Mimi,  immediately  after  the  play,  went  to 
the  dressing-room  of  the  chorus  where  she 
found  Janina  still  agitated. 

"How  good  you  are!"  cried  the  actress 
effusively. 

"What  I  did  was  right  .  .  .  that's  all," 
Janina  replied. 


1 62  The  Comedienne 

"Take  a  trip  with  us  to  Bielany,  won't 
you?"  begged  Mimi. 

"When?  .  .  .  And  who  are  going?" 

"We're  going  within  the  next  few  days. 
There  will  be  Wawrzecki,  I,  a  certain  author, 
a  very  jolly  chap,  whose  play  we  are  to  pre^- 
sent,  Majkowska,  Topolski  and  you.  You 
must  come  with  us!" 

After  lengthy  persuasions  and  kisses,  which 
Janina  received  indifferently,  she  finally 
agreed  to  accompany  them. 

They  waited  for  Wawrzecki  and  afterwards 
all  went  together  to  a  pastry  shop  for  tea, 
taking  with  them  also  Topolski,  who  there 
composed  a  circular  addressed  to  the  whole 
company  requesting  them  to  appear  without 
fail  at  the  morrow's  rehearsal,  punctually  at 
ten  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  V 

FOR  Cabinski  all  days  on  which  there  was 
a  performance  were  important  days,  but  only 
three  days  were  extraordinary:  Christmas 
Eve,  Easter  Day,  and  .  .  .  the  name  day  of  his 
wife  which  fell  on  the  iQth  of  July,  sacred  to 
St.  Vincent  de  Paul.  On  those  three  days 
the  director  and  his  wife  would  hold  a  recep- 
tion on  a  grand  scale. 

Cabinski  the  miser  would  vanish,  and  in  his 
place  would  appear  Cabinski  the  munificent, 
dispensing  hospitality  after  the  ancient  cus- 
tom of  the  Polish  nobility,  while  certain 
deeply  hidden  hereditary  cells  of  lavishness 
opened  up  in  his  ego.  The  guests  were 
received  and  f£ted  generously  and  no  expense 
was  spared.  And,  if  later,  as  a  result  of  this, 
advances  on  salaries  were  smaller  for  a  month 
or  so,  their  deferment  more  frequent,  and  the 
director's  complaints  of  a  deficit  more  numer- 
ous, hardly  anyone  minded,  for  all  enjoyed 

163 


164  The  Comedienne 

themselves  to  the  utmost,  particularly  on  the 
name  day  of  the  directress. 

Cabinska's  Christian  name  was  Vincentine, 
but  none  bothered  their  heads  about  why  her 
husband  called  her  "Pepa,"  for  nobody  was 
interested  to  that  extent. 

In  accordance  with  the  announcement  of 
Topolski,  the  company  assembled  punctually 
for  the  rehearsal.  They  were  to  play  The 
Martyr  by  D'Ennery,  in  which  the  title  role, 
one  of  the  showiest  and  most  lachrymose 
in  her  repertory,  was  invariably  acted  each 
year  by  the  directress.  She  played  it  really 
well,  putting  into  it  her  entire  store  of  tears 
and  vocal  lamentations,  and  had  the  deep 
satisfaction  of  thrilling  the  public. 

Those  name  day  performances  were  usually 
a  real  benefit  for  all  kinds  of  novices,  for  the 
caste  was  purposely  made  up  of  the  poorest 
players  so  that  the  acting  of  Pepa  might  there- 
by shine  forth  more  effectively. 

Cabinska  went  direct  to  the  stage  without 
speaking  to  anyone  and  during  the  entire 
rehearsal  wore  on  her  face  an  expression  of 
tender  emotion  and  absorption.  At  the  end 
of  the  rehearsal  the  entire  company  gathered 
about  her  and  Topolski  came  forward.  Cabin- 


The  Comedienne  165 

ska  modestly  lowered  her  eyes  and,  pretending 
to  be  surprised,  waited. 

"Allow  me,  esteemed  Directress  to  extend 
to  you  in  the  name  of  your  fellow-actors  and 
actresses  their  most  cordial  felicitations  on  the 
occasion  of  your  name  day  and  to  wish  you 
with  all  our  hearts  that  you  may  continue  to 
remain  for  a  long  time  the  ornament  of  our 
stage  and  a  blessing  to  your  husband  and 
children.  In  grateful  appreciation  of  your 
artistic  services  and  your  companionship,  the 
company  begs  you,  my  dear  madame,  to 
accept  this  humble  token  of  our  affection 
which  is  only  a  poor  return  for  your  goodness 
and  kind-heartedness." 

Topolski  ended  and  handed  her  an  open 
case  in  which  was  a  set  of  sapphire  gems 
bought  from  the  contributions  of  the  whole 
company.  He  kissed  her  hand  and  stepped 
aside. 

Then  all  began  to  approach  Cabinska  sepa- 
rately; the  men  kissed  her  hands,  while  the 
women  threw  themselves  on  her  neck  with 
protestations  of  friendship  and  good  wishes. 

Wladek,  who  had  been  the  first  to  pay  his 
tribute  at  hand-kissing,  drew  Topolski  aside 
behind  the  scenes. 


166  The  Comedienne 

"Spit  out  the  dregs  of  that  congratulatory 
tommyrot,  or  you'll  poison  yourself  with 
such  a  big  dose  of  hypocrisy." 

"But  it  won't  poison  her." 

"Bah!  the  sapphires  cost  one  hundred  and 
twenty  rubles;  for  so  much  money  she  can 
listen  a  whole  week." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you  with  my  whole 
heart !  You  put  me  to  shame  my  dear  com- 
rades, for  in  truth  I  do  not  know  what  I  have 
done  to  merit  so  much  kindness,"  said  Cabin- 
ska  with  emotion.  Really,  the  sapphires 
were  very  pretty. 

The  director  smiled,  rubbed  his  hands,  and 
invited  all  to  his  home  after  the  performance. 

The  directress  singled  out  for  a  particularly 
effusive  kiss  Janina  who,  led  by  sympathy, 
had  brought  her  a  lovely  bouquet  of  roses, 
explaining  that  she  had  not  contributed  to  the 
fund  for  the  general  gift  as  it  was  collected 
before  her  advent  into  the  company. 

Cabinska  would  not  part  with  Janina  and 
took  her  along  with  her  to  dinner. 

"Truly,  they  must  be  very  good  people  and 
must  love  you,"  said  Janina  at  the  table. 

"Once  a  year  will  not  ruin  them,"  answered 
Cabinska  merrily. 


The  Comedienne  167 

Together  they  went  to  the  pastry  shop  so 
as  not  to  interfere  with  the  preparations  that 
were  being  made  for  the  evening  reception. 
She  sat  there  relating  to  Janina  the  history  of 
her  past  name  day  celebrations  with  a  tender 
pathos  which  could  not,  however,  disguise  a 
certain  feeling  of  bitterness  and  uneasiness  over 
the  fact  that  the  editor  had  not  even  sent  her 
a  card  of  greeting. 

The  performance  was  a  real  ovation.  From 
the  public  she  received  a  mass  of  flowers,  while 
the  editor  sent  her  a  big  basket  of  them 
together  with  an  imposing  bracelet. 

That  overwhelmed  her.  As  soon  as  he 
appeared  behind  the  scenes,  she  drew  him  into 
the  darkest  corner  and  kissed  him  with  fiery 
passion. 

The  Cabinski  home  presented  an  unusual 
appearance.  In  the  first  room,  in  the  middle 
of  a  huge  rug  that  completely  covered  the 
dirty  floor,  was  a  circular  stand  bearing  a 
fan-shaped  palm,  while  two  mirrors  with 
marble  consoles  stood  in  the  corners.  Heavy, 
cherry-colored,  velvet  portieres  were  draped 
over  the  windows  and  the  doors.  A  clump  of 
azaleas  and  rhododendrons  between  the  win- 
dows formed  an  oasis  of  gorgeous  greenery, 


1 68  The  Comedienne 

accentuating  the  beautiful  lines  of  a  yellowish 
plaster  statue  of  Venus  de  Milo  which  stood 
on  a  pedestal  draped  with  purple  cloth. 

The  piano  at  the  further  end  of  the  room, 
decked  with  a  garland  of  artificial  flowers, 
bore  upon  it  a  huge  golden  tray  stacked  with 
visiting  cards.  Four  little  tables  with  little 
blue  chairs  surrounding  them  were  placed  in 
the  most  brilliantly  lighted  parts  of  the  room. 
The  tarnished  and  chipped  gilded  frames  of  the 
mirrors  were  skillfully  masked  with  red  muslin, 
pinned  artistically  with  flowers.  The  torn 
wall  paper  was  covered  with  pictures.  The 
whole  salon  presented  so  elegant  and  artistic 
an  appearance,  that  Cabinska,  on  returning 
from  the  theater  stood  amazed  and  cried  out 
enthusiastically:  "A  splendid  scene!  .  .  . 
John  you  are  a  master-decorator!" 

"Heavens!  .  .  .  it's  as  beautiful  as  in  a 
comedy!"  added  the  nurse,  crossing  the  salon 
on  tiptoe. 

The  second  and  larger  room  which  ordina- 
rily served  the  purpose  of  a  store  room, 
crammed  with  scenic  odds  and  ends,  had  now 
been  transformed  into  a  dining  room  and 
dazzled  with  its  restaurant-like  splendor:  the 
whiteness  of  its  table  covers,  its  polished 


The  Comedienne  169 

trays,  its  bouquets  of  flowers,  its  mass  of 
burnished  dishes,  and  its  formality. 

Cabinska  hardly  had  time  to  dress  herself 
in  a  stately  lily-colored  gown  in  which  her 
faded  complexion,  ruined  by  cosmetics,  took 
on  a  youthful  expression  and  freshness,  when 
the  company  began  thronging  in.  The  ladies 
retired  to  Cabinska's  room  adjoining  the 
boudoir,  while  the  gentlemen  left  their  street 
attire  in  the  kitchen  divided  in  two  by  a 
French  wall  painted  in  the  style  of  Louis  XV, 
which  had  been  brought  from  the  stage. 

Wicek,  in  theatrical  livery  that  consisted 
of  boots  with  yellow,  cardboard  tops,  a  blue 
spencer  a  few  sizes  too  big  for  him,  decked  with 
red  cord  and  a  mass  of  gold  buttons,  helped 
the  actors  to  lay  aside  their  wraps  with  a  grave 
and  stiff  mien,  like  a  real  groom  from  an 
English  comedy;  but  his  roguish  disposition 
could  not  long  endure  the  mood. 

11  What  a  monkey  the  director  has  made  of 
me,  eh?  My  own  mother  wouldn't  know  me 
in  these  duds.  No  doubt  I'll  have  to  pay  for 
it  all  by  going  without  supper  or  absolution! " 
he  whispered,  smiling. 

The  ladies  all  in  gala  array,  rouged  and 
charming,  began  to  fill  the  room  with  a  stiff 


1 70  The  Comedienne 

and  icy  atmosphere,  sitting  about  immovable 
and  shy. 

Janina  arrived  rather  late,  for  she  had  a  long 
distance  to  come  from  her  hotel,  and  wished 
to  dress  carefully.  She  greeted  everyone,  and 
her  eyes  wandered  with  a  look  of  surprise  over 
the  room,  struck  by  the  tone  of  solemnity  that 
reigned  over  all.  Dressed  in  a  cream-colored 
silk  gown  shading  off  into  heliotrope,  with 
gentians  in  her  hair  and  corsage,  tall  and  lithe, 
with  her  rosy  complexion  and  reddish-golden 
hair,  she  looked  very  original  and  beautiful. 
She  possessed  a  great  deal  of  grace  and  natural 
distinction,  and  moved  about  with  ease,  as 
though  accustomed  to  the  atmosphere  of  the 
salon,  while  the  rest  of  the  company  felt 
unnatural  and  constrained  by  the  theatrical 
elegance  of  their  surroundings.  They  walked 
about,  conversed  and  smiled,  as  though  they 
were  on  the  stage,  playing  some  very  difficult 
r61e  that  demanded  continual  attention.  One 
could  see  that  the  very  carpet  under  their  feet 
restrained  them,  that  they  sat  down  with  a 
certain  fear  on  the  silk-lined  chairs,  that  they 
seemed  to  be  merely  passing  through  the 
room,  afraid  to  touch  any  of  the  objects  about 
them. 


The  Comedienne 


It  was  a  festive  reception  with  wine  served 
by  the  restaurant  waiters,  and  with  trays  of 
cakes  and  liqueurs  circulating  about  in  ponder- 
ous bottles.  This  only  added  to  the  restraint 
of  the  ladies.  They  knew  not  how  to  eat  or 
drink  gracefully,  they  feared  to  stain  their 
dresses  and  the  furniture  and  feared  also  to 
serve  as  the  butt  of  ridicule  for  a  few  gentlemen 
who  were  not  at  all  impressed  with  this  sham 
elegance,  and  were  gazing  at  them  and  making 
spiteful  remarks. 

Majkowska,  who  to-day  presented  a  truly 
stately  appearance  in  her  light  yellow  dress 
with  a  border  of  roses,  with  her  black,  almost 
ebony  hair,  olive  complexion,  and  classically 
beautiful  face  —  a  typical  Veronese  —  took 
Janina  by  the  arm  and  gracefully  promenaded 
about  the  salon  with  her,  casting  proud  glances 
at  those  about  them. 

On  the  other  hand,  her  mother,  whom  some 
mischievous  person  had  seated  on  a  little 
tabouret,  was  undergoing  agonies.  She  had  in 
one  hand  a  glassful  of  wine,  in  the  other  a  tart 
and  a  cake  in  her  lap.  She  drank  the  wine  and 
was  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  the  glass.  She 
gazed  pleadingly  at  her  daughter,  grew  red  in 
the  face,  and  finally  asked  Zielinska,  who  was 


1 72  The  Comedienne 

sitting  near  her:  "My  dear  lady,  what  shall  I 
do  with  this  glass?" 

11  Stand  it  under  the  chair." 

The  old  woman  did  as  she  was  advised. 
Everyone  began  to  laugh  at  her,  so  she  picked 
it  up  again  and  held  it  in  her  hand. 

Old  Mrs.  Niedzielska,  the  mother  of  Wladek 
and  the  owner  of  a  house  on  Piwna  Street,  who 
was  always  honored  by  the  Cabinskis,  sat 
under  the  shade  of  the  palm  grove  with 
Kaczkowska,  and  continually  followed  her  son 
with  her  eyes. 

The  men  in  the  dining  room  were,  mean- 
while, storming  the  buffet. 

"Where  do  you  get  your  everlasting  humor, 
Glas?"  asked  Razowiec,  who,  although  he 
was  the  gloomiest  actor  in  the  company, 
played  the  parts  of  the  merriest  rakes  and  the 
funniest  uncles. 

"That  is  a  public  secret.  I  do  not  worry, 
and  I  have  a  good  digestion,"  answered 
Glas. 

"You  have  precisely  that  which  I  am 
lacking.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  I  tried  the  recipe 
which  you  recommended,  but  got  no  results 
.  .  .  nothing  will  help  me  any  more.  I  feel 
certain  that  I  shall  not  outlive  this  winter  for 


The  Comedienne  *73 

if  my  stomach  does  not  pain  me  it  is  my 
back,  if  it  isn't  my  back  then  it's  my  heart,  or 
else  this  dreadful  pain  passes  into  my  neck  and 
racks  my  spine  as  with  an  iron  rod." 

"Imagination!  Drink  a  cognac  to  me.  .  .  . 
Don't  think  of  your  illness  and  you'll  be  well." 

"You  laugh,  but  I  tell  you  truly  that  I 
can  no  longer  sleep  for  whole  nights  at  a 
time.  .  .  ." 

"Imagination,  I  tell  you!  Drink  a  cognac 
tome!" 

"  It  is  easy  for  those  who  have  never  suffered 
to  ridicule." 

"I  have  suffered,  my  God,  I  have  suffered. 
|  .  .  Drink  a  cognac  to  me!  I  once  ate  in 
the  restaurant '  Under  the  Star '  such  a  cutlet 
that  I  lay  in  bed  a  whole  week  after  it  and 
writhed  like  an  eel  with  pain." 

They  retired  to  the  further  end  of  the  buffet 
near  the  window  and  continued  their  conver- 
sation. The  one  complained  and  lamented, 
the  other  ceaselessly  laughed,  saying  every 
minute,  "Drink  a  cognac  to  me!" 

"Maurice,"  called  Majkowska  in  a  whisper, 
lifting  the  portieres. 

Topolski  bent  over  toward  her  and  she 
murmured  into  his  ear:  "I  love  you!  ...  do 


i?4  The  Comedienne 

you  know?  ..."  and  she  passed  on,  convers- 
ing with  Janina. 

Throughout  the  salon  formed  small  groups 
of  people  conversing. 

Cabinski  kept  running  about  continually, 
inviting  the  guests  to  drink,  pouring  out  the 
liquors  for  them,  and  kissing  everybody. 

Pepa  sat  in  the  salon  with  the  editor  and 
Kotlicki,  who  was  one  of  the  steady  patrons  of 
the  theater.  She  was  relating  something  in  a 
lively  and  jovial  tone,  for  the  editor  would 
every  now  and  then  burst  out  in  a  discreet 
laugh,  while  Kotlicki  would  contort  into  a 
smile,  his  long  equine  face,  and  gather  about 
him  his  coat-tails.  All  that  was  known  about 
him  was  that  he  was  rich  and  ennuied. 

Kotlicki  listened  patiently  enough,  but, 
at  last,  bending  toward  Cabinska,  he  asked 
in  a  wooden,  expressionless  voice,  "When 
does  the  culminating  act  of  to-day's  perform- 
ance begin — the  supper?" 

"Immediately  .  .  .  we  are  waiting  only  for 
the  owner  of  the  house  to  arrive." 

"No  doubt  the  rent  for  the  last  quarter 
must  be  unpaid,  if  you  show  her  so  much 
consideration,"  he  whispered  ironically. 

"You  always  see  everything  in  the  worst 


The  Comedienne  i?5 

light!"  she  answered,  throwing  a  flower  at 
him. 

"To-day  I  merely  see  that  the  directress  is 
fascinating,  that  Majkowska  has  the  mien  of  a 
lioness,  and  that  the  lady  who  is  walking  with 
her  .  .  .  but  who  is  she?" 

"  A  newly  engaged  chorus  girl." 

"Well,  I  see  that  yonder  aspirant  to  the 
dramatic  art  is  beautiful  by  virtue  of  her 
originality  and  alone  possesses  more  dis- 
tinction than  all  the  rest  of  them  taken 
together.  Furthermore,  I  see  that  Mimi 
to-day  resembles  a  freshly  baked  roll,  white 
and  round  and  rosy ;  that  Rosinska  has  the  face 
of  a  black  poodle  who  has  fallen  into  a  bin  of 
flour  and  not  yet  succeeded  in  shaking  it  off, 
and  that  her  Sophie  looks  like  a  freshly  washed 
and  combed  little  greyhound.  Kaczkowska 
looks  like  a  frying  pan  covered  with  melted 
butter;  Mrs.  Piesh  like  a  hen  seeking  her 
strayed  chicks;  and  Mrs.  Glas  like  a  calf 
enveloped  in  a  rainbow.  Where  the  dickens 
did  she  get  all  those  colors  she  wears?  " 

"You  are  a  merciless  mocker!" 

"You  can  make  me  relent,  Directress,  by 
hurrying  the  supper  .  .  ."he  answered  and 
became  silent. 


176  The  Comedienne 

The  directress  began  telling  in  detail  about 
a  new  joke  that  Majkowska  had  played  on 
Topolski.  Kotlicki,  listening  to  it,  frowned 
impatiently. 

"  It  is  too  bad  that  there  is  not  a  law  which 
would  compel  you  ladies  to  pierce  your  tongues 
instead  of  your  ears,"  he  said  derisively, 
enveloping  himself  in  a  cloud  of  cigar  smoke 
and  observing  Janina  who  was  still  promenad- 
ing with  Majkowska. 

Both  beamed  with  satisfaction,  realizing  the 
attention  they  attracted.  Janina's  eyes  were 
joyous,  and  her  crimson  lips  smiled  charmingly 
revealing  her  pearly  teeth. 

Wladek  was  engaged  in  some  lengthy  con- 
versation with  his  mother  and  also  followed 
Janina  with  his  eyes.  Meeting  the  glances  of 
Kotlicki  he  turned  away. 

Shortly  they  were  joined  by  Sophie  Rosin- 
ska,  a  fourteen-year  old  typical  actor's  child 
with  the  long,  thin  mouth  of  a  greyhound,  a 
pale  complexion,  and  the  large  eyes  of  a  ma- 
donna. Her  short,  curled  hair  shook  with 
every  motion  of  her  head  and  her  thin,  narrow 
lips  fairly  bit  with  their  spitefulness  as  she 
related  something  to  Majkowska  in  her  lively 
voice. 


The  Comedienne  177 

' l  Sophie ! ' '  energetically  called  Mrs. 
Rosinska. 

Sophie  left  them  and  sat  down  beside  her 
mother,  gloomy  and  sulky. 

' '  I  constantly  keep  telling  you  not  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  Maj  kowska ! ' '  whispered  Rosin- 
ska,  adjusting  the  curls  on  her  daughter's  head. 

"  Don't  bother  me  with  your  nonsense. 
Mamma!  ...  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  listening 
to  it!  I  like  Miss  Mela  because  she  isn't  a 
scarecrow  like  those  others,"  saucily  prattled 
Sophie  and  smiled  with  childish  naivete  at 
Niedzielska,  who  was  looking  at  her. 

"Wait  till  we  get  home.     I'll  fix  you! " 

"All  right,  all  right  .  .  .  we'll  see  about 
that,  Mother!" 

Mrs.  Rosinska  turned  to  Stanislawski,  who 
sat  beside  her  all  the  while  and  chatted  with- 
out drinking  anything.  She  began  to  make 
remarks  about  Maj  kowska,  with  whom  she 
was  always  on  a  war  footing,  for  they  had 
almost  the  same  repertory  and  Majkowska 
had,  in  addition,  talent,  youth,  and  beauty, 
none  of  which  Rosinska  possessed.  Rosinska 
hated  all  young  women,  for  in  each  she  now 
saw  a  rival  and  a  thief  stealing  her  r61es  and 
her  favor  with  the  public. 


i78  The  Comedienne 

Lately  she  had  become  intimate  with 
Stanislawski  for  she  felt  that  something  similar 
was  happening  to  him.  He  never  spoke  to 
her  about  it,  nor  ever  complained,  but  now, 
when  he  bent  toward  her  his  thin,  waxen  face 
all  seamed  with  wrinkles  as  fine  as  hairs,  his 
yellowish  eyes  glowed  gloomily. 

"Did  you  notice  how  Cabinska  played 
to-day?"  she  asked  him. 

"Did  I  notice?"  answered  Stanislawski, 
"I  see  that  every  day.  I  know  long  ago 
what  they  are  .  .  .  long  ago!  What  is 
Cabinski  himself?  ...  A  clown  and  tight- 
rope walker  who  in  our  days  would  not  even 
have  been  permitted  to  play  the  part  of  a 
lackey!  .  .  .  And  Wladek!  he's  an  artist,  is 
he?  ...  A  beast  who  makes  a  public  house 
of  the  stage!  .  .  .  He  plays  only  for  his 
mistresses!  His  noblemen  are  shoemakers 
and  barbers,  while  his  barbers  and  shoemakers 
are  loafers  from  the  water  front.  .  .  What  do 
they  introduce  on  the  stage?  .  .  .  Hooligans, 
the  street,  slang  and  mud.  .  .  .  And  what  is 
Glas?  ...  A  drunkard  in  life,  which  is  a 
minor  consideration ,  but  it  is  not  permissible 
for  a  true  artist  to  wander  about  taverns  with 
the  most  disgusting  hoodlums;  it  is  not  per- 


The  Comedienne  179 

missible  for  a  true  artist  to  introduce  on  the 
stage  the  hiccoughs  of  a  drunkard  and  vulgar 
brutality.  .  .  .  Take  Ziolkowski's  The  Mas- 
ter and  the  Apprentice  for  instance:  there  you 
have  a  type,  a  finished  type  of  a  drunkard 
presented  in  broad  and  classical  outlines; 
there  is  gesture  and  pose  and  mimicry,  but 
there  is  also  nobility.  What  does  Glas  make 
of  that  r61e?  .  .  .  He  makes  a  filthy,  repul- 
sive, drunken  shoemaker  of  the  lowest  order. 
That  is  their  art!  .  .  .  And  Piesh?  .  .  . 
Piesh  is  also  not  much  better,  although  he 
bears  the  stamp  of  a  good  artist  .  .  .  but  his 
acting  is  a  miserable  and  an  everlasting  botch; 
he  has  a  humor  on  the  stage,  like  that  of 
fighting  dogs,  but  not  human  and  noble  .  .  . 
and  not  ours!  ..." 

He  became  silent  a  moment  and  rubbed  his 
eyes  with  his  long  skinny  hand  with  thin, 
knotty  fingers. 

"And  Krzykiewicz?  .  .  .  and  Wawrzecki? 
.  .  .  and  Razowiec?  .  .  .  perhaps  they  are 
artists,  eh?  .  .  .  Artists!  .  .  .  Do  you  re- 
member Kalacinski?  ...  He  was  an  art- 
ist! Or  Krzensinski,  Stobinski,  Felek,  and 
Chelchowski?  .  .  .  Those  were  artists  who 
could  bring  down  the  house!  .  .  .  What  are 


i8o  The  Comedienne 

our  actors  compared  with  them?  ..."  he 
asked  encompassing  with  an  inimical  glance 
the  company  about  them.  "What  is  this 
band  of  shoemakers,  tailors,  paper  hangers, 
barbers?  .  .  .  Comedians,  ragamuffins,  and 
clowns!  ...  Bah!  art  is  going  to  the  dogs. 
In  a  few  more  years  when  we  are  gone,  they 
will  make  of  the  stage  a  barroom,  a  circus,  or  a 
storage  warehouse. 

"Do  you  hear?  .  .  .  they  give  me  half- 
sheet  rdles  of  old  men  and  old  nincompoops, 
tome!  .  .  .  do  you  hear?  .  .  .  tome,  who  for 
forty  years  have  upheld  the  entire  classical 
repertory — to  me !  Oh !  oh ! "  he  hissed  quietly 
tearing  his  finger  nails  convulsively.  ' '  Topol- 
ski!  .  .  .  Topolski  alone  has  a  talent,  but 
what  does  he  do  with  it?  ...  A  bandit,  a 
Singalese,  who  goes  into  epileptic  fits  on  the 
stage,  who  is  ready  to  put  a  barn  on  the  stage 
if  those  new  authors  require  it.  They  call 
that  realism,  while  in  truth  it  is  nothing  but 
roguery!  ..." 

"And  the  women?  .  .  .  you  forget  the 
women,  sir!  ...  Who  plays  the  parts  of 
sweethearts  and  heroines?  ...  Who  is  in  the 
chorus?  .  .  .  scrub-women  and  barmaids, 
who  have  made  of  the  theater  a  screen  for 


The  Comedienne  181 

their  licentiousness.  But  that's  nothing  .  .  . 
the  directors  want  that ;  what  do  they  care  if 
these  women  possess  neither  talent,  intelli- 
gence nor  beauty!  .  .  .  They  give  them  the 
most  important  r61es.  They  act  the  parts  of 
heroines  and  look  like  chambermaids  or  like 
those  who  walk  the  streets!  .  .  .  But  what 
do  the  directors  care  as  long  as  the  business 
keeps  going  and  the  box  office  is  sold  out  .  .  . 
that's  all  they  care  about!"  She  spoke 
rapidly  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face  so 
violently  that  she  became  all  red,  in  spite  of 
the  thick  layer  of  powder  and  cream. 

The  stage-director,  who  was  once  the  cele- 
brated hero  of  a  few  theaters,  and  old  Mirow- 
ska  who  was  still  retained  only  as  a  favor 
because  of  her  old  age  and  brilliant  past 
completed  the  camp  of  the  veterans  of  the  old 
actors'  guard,  who  had  fought  in  other  times, 
and  looked  upon  the  present  with  gloomy  eyes. 
They  stood  beneath  the  bridge  of  a  sinking 
ship,  hence  no  one  even  heard  their  cries  of 
despair, 

Kotlicki  beckoned  to  Wladek  and  made 
room  for  him  beside  himself. 

Wladek  in  passing  Janina  cast  a  glance 
of  fiery  passion  at  her,  and  then  sat  down 


1 82  The  Comedienne 

near  Kotlicki,  rubbing  his  knee  which  both- 
ered him  whenever  he  sat  for  any  length  of 
time. 

"Rheumatism  is  already  there,  eh?  .  .  . 
while  fame  and  money  are  still  far  away !  .  .  ." 
Kotlicki  began  mockingly. 

"Oh,  the  deuce  take  fame!  .  .  .  Money  I 
wouldn't  mind  having  ..." 

"Do  you  think  you  will  ever  get  it?" 

"I  will  .  .  .  my  faith  in  that  is  unfailing! 
At  times  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  already 
felt  it  in  my  pocket." 

"That's  true.    Your  mother  owns  a  house." 

"And  six  children  and  a  pile  of  debts  as  high 
as  the  chimney!  .  .  .  No,  not  that!  ...  I 
will  get  the  money  elsewhere  ..." 

"In  the  meanwhile,  according  to  your  old 
custom  you  borrow  it  wherever  you  can,  eh?  " 
Kotlicki  mocked  on. 

"Oh,  don't  fear.  I'll  return  yours  this 
month  yet,  without  fail." 

"I  will  wait  even  until  the  reappearance  of 
the  comet  of  1812;  it  will  pass  this  way  again 
in  about  a  year.  ..." 

"Don't  mock  me.  .  .  .  You'd  not  hurt 
people  as  much  with  a  club  as  you  do  with 
your  cynicism." 


The  Comedienne  183 

" That's  my  weapon!"  answered  Kotlicki, 
contracting  his  brows. 

"  Perhaps,  before  long,  I  shall  marry  and 
then  I  will  pay  up  all  my  debts.  .  .  . " 

Kotlicki  turned  violently  towards  him, 
glanced  straight  into  his  eyes  and  began  to 
laugh  with  his  quiet,  neighing  voice,  screwing 
his  face  into  a  grimace. 

"That  is  the  finest  piece  of  invention  that  I 
have  ever  heard!" 

"No,  I  seriously  intend  to  marry  and  have 
already  selected  something :  a  brownstone  house 
and  a  girl  of  twenty,  a  light  blonde,  plump, 
graceful  and  resolute.  .  .  .  If  my  mother  helps 
me,  I  shall  marry  before  this  season  is  over." 

"And  what  of  the  theater?" 

"I  will  organize  a  company  of  my  own." 

Kotlicki  laughed  again. 

"Your mother  is  too  sensible  and  I  am  sure 
that  she  will  not  let  herself  be  caught  on  that 
hook,  my  dear!  .  .  .  Why  are  you  ogling 
that  beauty  in  the  cream-colored  dress  so 
persistently,  eh?" 

"Oh  she's  a  cocoanut  of  a  woman!" 

"Yes,  but  that  cocoanut  is  too  hard  for  your 
weak  teeth.  You  won't  crack  it,  and  you're 
likely  to  lose  a  tooth  in  trying.  ..." 


1 84  The  Comedienne 

"Do  you  know  what  the  savages  do?  .  .  . 
When  they  haven't  a  knife  or  a  stone  handy, 
they  light  a  fire,  put  the  cocoanut  in  it,  and  the 
heat  bursts  it  open  ..." 

"  And  when  there  is  no  fire  to  be  had,  what 
then?  .  .  .  You  don't  answer  me,  my  clever 
chap?  .  .  .  Then  I'll  tell  you:  when  there  is 
no  fire  to  be  had,  they  content  themselves 
with  gazing  on  the  cocoanut,  consoling  them- 
selves with  the  thought  that  someone  else 
will  show  them  how  to  do  it." 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  owner  of  the  house.  A  confused 
murmur  arose  from  those  assembled .  Cabinska 
went  forward  to  greet  her  with  extended  hand 
and  the  mien  of  resplendent  majesty. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  meet  you!  .  .  a  real 
pleasure!"  she  announced  with  a  faint  smile, 
condescendingly  extending  her  hand  to  the 
persons  whom  Cabinska  introduced  to  her. 
She  sought  to  appear  coldly  indifferent,  while 
in  reality  she  had  been  dying  from  curiosity 
ever  since  the  morning  to  view  these  noted 
women  about  whom  she  had  heard  so  much. 

Cabinski  approached  her  smiling,  with  wine 
and  cakes  in  his  hand,  but  Pepa  was  already 
inviting  all  to  sit  down  to  supper. 


The  Comedienne  185 

The  landlady  excused  herself  for  being  late, 
but  her  thin  voice  was  drowned  amid  the 
hubbub  of  the  guests  seating  themselves  at 
the  table.  She  was  given  an  honorary  place 
between  Pepa,  Majkowska,  and  the  editor. 
Kotlicki  seated  himself  at  the  end  of  the  table 
alongside  of  Janina,  while  Wladek  wedged 
himself  in  between  Janina  and  Zielinska 

After  a  toast  pronounced  by  the  editor  in 
honor  of  the  celebrant,  conversation  burst 
forth  like  a  cascade  and  with  unrestrained 
flow  filled  the  entire  room.  All  began  to  talk 
at  the  same  time,  to  laugh  and  to  joke. 
Inebriation  began  to  envelop  all  brains  in  a 
rosy  mist  of  merriment  and  to  weave  joy 
around  all  hearts. 

In  the  middle  of  the  supper  the  doorbell 
rang  violently. 

"Who  can  that  be?"  asked  Cabinska. 
"Nurse,  go  and  open  the  door!" 

The  nurse  was  busy  about  a  side  table  where 
the  children  were  eating;  she  went  immedi- 
ately to  open  the  door. 

"Who  came?"  inquired  Cabinska. 

"Oh,  nobody!  Only  that  unchristened 
little  goldfish!"  she  answered  scornfully. 

Those  sitting  nearest  burst  out  laughing. 


1 86  The  Comedienne 

' '  Ah,  yes.     Our  dear  and  invaluable  Gold ! ' ' 

Gold  entered  and  bowed  to  the  company, 
tugging  at  his  sparse,  yellow  little  beard. 

"How  are  you,  goldfish?" 

"Hey  there,  Treasurer!  Oh  pearl  of  treas- 
urers, come  over  to  us." 

The  treasurer  bowed,  paying  no  attention 
to  the  jibes  that  were  hurled  at  him. 

"Mrs.  Directress  will  pardon  me  for  coming 
late,  but  my  family  lives  in  the  Jewish  quarter 
and  I  really  had  to  stay  with  them  till  the  end 
of  the  Sabbath,"  he  explained  to  Cabinska. 

"Have  a  seat,  sir.  If  you  can't  eat,  you're 
at  least  allowed  to  drink,"  invited  Cabinski, 
making  room  for  Gold  alongside  himself. 

Gold  located  himself  carefully  and  began  to 
eat.  When  the  company  had  forgotten  him  a 
bit,  he  ventured  to  address  them: 

"I  have  brought  you  the  latest  news,  for  I 
see  no  one  knows  it,  as  yet.  ..." 

He  took  a  newspaper  from  his  side  pocket 
and  began  to  read  aloud:  "  Miss  Snilowska,  the 
noted  and  talented  artist  of  the  provincial 
theaters,  playing  under  the  pseudonym  of 
'Nicolette'  has  received  permission  to  make 
her  debut  in  the  Warsaw  Theater.  She  will 
make  her  first  appearance  next  Tuesday  in 


The  Comedienne  187 

Sardou's  Odette.  We  hope  that  the  manage- 
ment, in  engaging  Miss  Snilowska,  has  added 
a  very  valuable  acquisition  to  the  stage." 

He  folded  away  the  paper  and  calmly  con- 
tinued to  eat.  The  company  was  struck 
dumb  with  amazement. 

"Nicolette  on  the  Warsaw  stage!  .  .  .  Nic- 
olette  making  her  debut!  .  .  .  Nico- 
ette!  .  .  .  '  they  whispered  with  subdued 
voices. 

Everybody  began  to  look  at  Majkowska  and 
Pepa,  but  both  were  silent. 

Majkowska's  face  wore  a  scornful  expression 
while  Pepa,  unable  to  conceal  the  anger  that 
raged  within  her,  tore  distractedly  at  the  lace 
on  her  sleeves. 

11  No  doubt  she  is  now  blessing  that  intrigue 
that  caused  her  to  leave  us,  for  it  helped 
instead  of  harming  her,"  said  someone. 

"Or  else  it  was  her  talent  that  helped  her!" 
intentionally  added  Kotlicki. 

"Talent?"  cried  Cabinska,  "Nicolette  and 
talent !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Why  she  could  not  even 
play  a  chambermaid  on  our  stage!" 

"Nevertheless  in  the  Warsaw  Theater  she 
will  play  the  second-best  roles,"  interposed 
Kotlicki. 


1 88  The  Comedienne 

"The  Warsaw  Theater!  The  Warsaw 
Theater!  That  is  a  still  poorer  show  than 
ours!"  added  Glas. 

"Ho!  ho!  what  do  the  Warsaw  Theater  and 
its  actors  amount  to!  .  .  .  Nothing  great,  to 
be  sure!"  shouted  Krzykiewicz,  all  flushed 
with  drinking  as  he  filled  the  landlady's 
glass  with  wine. 

"Only  pay  us  such  salaries  as  their  actors 
get,  and  you  will  see  who  we  are!"  called 
Piesh. 

"That's  true!  Piesh  is  right.  Who  can 
think  only  of  art  when  his  rent  is  in  arrears?" 

"That's  a  falsehood!  That  would  mean 
that  you  could  make  an  artist  of  any  swine- 
herd whom  you  fed,"  called  Stanislawski 
across  the  table. 

"Poverty  is  a  fire  that  burns  rubbish,  but 
the  true  metal  only  comes  out  of  it  all  the 
purer,"  quickly  said  Topolski. 

"Nonsense!  It  comes  out  not  purer,  but 
only  more  sooty,  and  afterwards  the  rust 
devours  it  all  the  more  quickly.  A  bottle  is 
worth  something  not  because  it  may  have 
once  contained  the  choicest  Tokay,  but 
because  it's  now  full  of  brandy!"  stammered 
Glas  in  a  drunken  voice. 


The  Comedienne  189 

"The  Warsaw  Theater!  My  God!  with 
the  exception  of  two  or  three  persons  it's  full 
of  the  scum  of  the  profession  which  the  pro- 
vinces no  longer  could  stand." 

"Just  let  the  press  give  us  the  support  it 
gives  them,  let  it  insert  half  a  column  daily 
about  us  and  round  up  the  public  for  us  each 
day  as  it  does  for  them!  ..." 

"Well,  what  then?  .  .  .  Even  at  that 
you'd  remain  nothing  but  Wawrzecki!" 
sneered  Kotlicki. 

"Yes,  but  the  public  would  come  and  see 
that  Wawrzecki  is  not  a  bit  worse  and  perhaps 
a  great  deal  better  actor  than  those  patented 
celebrities." 

"Let  me  speak!"  whimpered  Glas,  vainly 
trying  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  steady 
himself. 

"The  public!  .  .  .  the  public  is  a  flock  of 
sheep  which  runs  where  it  is  driven  by  the 
shepherds." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Topolski  ..." 

" Don't  try  to  deny  it,  Kotlicki!  I  tell  you 
that  the  public  is  a  pack  of  fools,  but  its  leaders 
are  even  greater  fools!" 

"Let  me  speak,"  mumbled  Glas  in  a  voice 
that  was  already  growing  inaudible,  while  he 


The  Comedienne 


leaned  on  the  table  and  gazed  at  the  candles 
with  hazy  eyes. 

"Glas,  go  to  sleep,  for  you're  drunk,"  said 
Topolski  sharply. 

"I  am  drunk?  ...  I  am  drunk?  .  .  ." 
stuttered  Glas,  his  face  as  ruddy  as  the  dawn. 

The  wine  and  liquors  circulated  more  freely, 
and  the  guests  began  shifting  their  seats. 

Wladek  seated  himself  between  Majkowska 
and  the  landlady,  embarking  on  a  flirtation 
with  the  latter.  Mimi,  growing  exhilarated, 
approached  Kaczkowska,  with  whom  she  had 
already  exchanged  glances  and  friendly  words 
across  the  table.  They  now  sat  close  together, 
holding  each  other  about  the  waist  like  the 
sincerest  friends. 

Janina,  who  had  been  answering  Kotlicki 
only  in  brief  sentences,  preoccupied  with  what 
she  saw  and  heard  about  her  glanced  at  him 
with  an  amazed  and  questioning  look. 

"You  are  surprised?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  for  not  so  long  ago  they  were  so  angry 
at  one  another." 

"Bosh!  that  was  only  a  little  comedy, 
played  fairly  well  in  their  momentary 
mood  .  .  ." 

"A  comedy?  .  .  .  and  I  thought  that  .  .  ." 


The  Comedienne 


"That  they  would  begin  to  pull  each  other's 
hair,  no  doubt  .  .  .  for  even  that  sometimes 
happens  behind  the  stage  between  the  best  of 
friends  and  actors.  From  what  planet  have 
you  dropped  down  that  these  people  surprise 
you  so  greatly?  ..." 

"I  came  from  the  country  where  one  hears 
hardly  anything  about  artists,  only  about  the 
theater  itself,  '  '  she  answered  straightforwardly. 

"Ah,  in  that  case,  I  beg  your  pardon.  .  .  . 
Now  I  understand  your  amazement  and  I  will 
presume  to  enlighten  you  that  all  those 
quarrels,  rumpuses,  intrigues,  envies,  and  even 
fights  are  nothing  but  nerves,  nerves,  nerves! 
They  vibrate  in  all  of  these  people  at  the 
slightest  touch,  like  the  strings  of  an  old 
piano.  Their  tears,  their  angers,  and  their 
hatreds  are  all  momentary,  and  their  loves 
last  about  a  week,  at  the  longest.  It  is  the 
comedy  of  life  of  nervous  individuals,  acted  a 
hundredfold  better  than  that  which  they 
present  on  the  stage,  for  it  is  played  instinc- 
tively. I  might  describe  it  thus:  all  women 
in  the  theater  are  hysterical,  and  the  men, 
whether  great  or  small,  are  neurasthenics. 
Here  you  will  find  everything  but  real  human 
beings.  Have  you  been  long  in  the  theater?  " 


192  The  Comedienne 

"This  is  my  first  month." 

"No  wonder  that  everything  amazes  you; 
but  in  a  month  or  so  you'll  no  longer  see  any- 
thing surprising;  everything  will  then  appear 
to  you  natural  and  commonplace." 

"In  other  words,  you  infer  that  I  also  will 
become  a  subject  to  hysteria,"  she  gaily  added. 

"Yes.  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  am 
speaking  with  absolute  sincerity.  You  think 
you  can  live  with  impunity  in  this  environ- 
ment without  becoming  like  all  the  rest  of 
them;  while  I  tell  you  that  that  is  a;  natural 
necessity.  Suppose  we  expatiate  on  that  a 
bit  .  .  .  will  you  allow  me?" 

"Certainly." 

"In  the  country  you  must  know  the  woods. 
.  .  .  Now  please  recall  to  your  mind  the 
woodsmen.  Have  they  not  in  themselves 
something  of  that  wood  which  they  are  con- 
tinually chopping?  They  become  stiff  and 
stalwart,  gloomy  and  indifferent.  And  what 
of  the  butcher?  Does  not  a  man  who  is  con- 
tinually occupied  in  killing,  who  breathes  in 
the  odor  of  raw  meat  and  steaming  blood,  in 
time  become  stamped  with  the  same  char, 
acteristics  as  those  beasts  which  he  has  slain? 
He  does,  and  I  would  say  that  he  is  himself  a 


The  Comedienne  193 

beast.  And  what  of  the  peasant?  Do  you 
know  the  village  well?" 

Janina  nodded. 

"  Imagine  for  a  moment  the  green  fields 
in  springtime,  golden  in  the  summer,  russet- 
gray  and  mournful  in  the  autumn,  white  and 
hard  like  a  desert  in  the  winter.  Now  behold 
the  peasant  as  he  is  from  his  birth  until  his 
death  .  .  .  the  average,  normal  peasant. 
The  peasant  boy  is  like  a  wild,  unbridled 
colt,  like  the  irresistible  urge  of  the  spring. 
In  the  prime  of  his  manhood  he  is  like  the 
summer,  a  physical  potentate,  hard  as  the 
earth  baked  by  the  July  sun,  gray  as  his 
fallows  and  pastures,  slow  as  the  ripening  of 
the  grain.  Autumn  corresponds  entirely  to 
the  old  age  of  the  peasant — that  desperate, 
ugly  old  age  with  its  bleared  eyes  and  earthy 
complexion,  like  the  ground  beneath  the  plow; 
it  lacks  strength  and  goes  about  in  beggars' 
garments  like  the  earth  that  has  been  reft  of 
the  bulk  of  its  fruits  with  only  a  few  dried  and 
yellow  stalks  sticking  out  here  and  there  in  the 
potato  fields;  the  peasant  is  already  slowly 
returning  to  the  earth  from  whence  he  sprung, 
the  earth  which  itself  becomes  dumb  and  silent 
after  the  harvest  and  lies  there  in  the  pale 


194  The  Comedienne 

autumn  sunlight,  quiet,  passive,  and  drowsy. 
.  .  .  Afterwards  comes  winter:  the  peasant 
in  his  white  coffin,  in  his  new  boots  and  clean 
shirt,  lies  down  to  rest  in  that  earth  which  has, 
like  him,  arrayed  itself  in  a  white  shroud  of 
snow  and  fallen  to  sleep — that  earth  whose  life 
he  was  a  part  of,  which  he  unconsciously  loved, 
and  with  which  he  dies  together,  as  cold  and 
hard  as  those  ice-covered  furrows  that 
nourished  him.  ..." 

Kotlicki  meditated  a  moment  and  then  con- 
tinued: "And  yet  you  think  that  you  can 
remain  in  the  theater  without  becoming  a 
hysterical  type?  That's  impossible!  This 
phantom  life,  this  daily  portrayal  of  new 
characters,  feelings  and  thoughts  upon  that 
shifting  plane  of  impressions,  amid  artificial 
stimulants — this  must  metamorphose  every 
human  being,  demolish  his  former  personality 
and  recast  or  rather  disintegrate  his  soul  so 
that  you  can  put  almost  any  stamp  upon  it. 
You  must  become  a  chameleon ;  on  the  stage, 
for  art's  sake,  in  life,  from  necessity." 

"In  other  words,  one  must  degenerate  to 
become  an  artist,"  added  Janina. 

"Well,  what  of  that?  .  .  .  Even  though 
you  fall,  others  will  surely  reach  the  goal  and 


The  Comedienne  195 

convince  themselves  that  it  wasn't  worth 
reaching — that  it  isn't  worth  striving  for,  nor 
shedding  a  single  tear,  nor  bearing  a  single 
pang  .  .  .  for  everything  is  illusion,  illusion, 
illusion.  .  .  ." 

They  became  silent.  Janina  felt  a  sudden 
chill  depression.  That  former  fear  of  the 
unknown,  experienced  at  Bukowiec,  now  took 
possession  of  her. 

Kotlicki  leaned  with  one  elbow  on  the  table 
and  looked  absently  into  the  crystal  carafes 
containing  the  arrack.  He  poured  out  and 
drank  glass  after  glass.  The  conversation 
with  Janina  had  wearied  him;  he  continued 
to  speak  to  her,  but  felt  vexed  at  himself  for 
having  said  so  much.  His  yellow  face,  cov- 
ered with  freckles  and  short  reddish  hair,  hard 
and  seamed  with  deep  lines,  resembled  a  horse's 
face  as  it  was  reflected  in  the  red  glass  of  the 
carafe. 

Gazing  at  Janina  he  saw  so  much  strength 
and  inner  health,  so  many  desires,  dreams,  and 
hopes,  that  he  muttered  to  himself  in  a  hollow, 
dissatisfied  tone:  "What  for?  ...  What 
for?  .  .  ." 

Then  he  gulped  down  another  glass  of  wine 
and  became  absorbed  in  the  general  conver- 


The  Comedienne 


sation.  Voices  sounded  harshly,  faces  were 
red,  and  eyes  glowed  through  a  mist  of  alco- 
holic intoxication,  while  many  lips  were  already 
mumbling  indistinctly  and  incoherently.  All 
were  talking  at  once,  arguing  heatedly  and 
quarreling  volubly,  unceremoniously  swearing, 
shouting  or  laughing. 

The  candles,  almost  burnt  out,  were 
replaced  by  new  ones.  Gray  dawn,  filtering 
in  through  the  reed  shades  in  thin  streaks, 
dimmed  the  glare  of  the  lights. 

The  guests  rose  from  the  table  and  scattered 
about  the  adjoining  rooms.  Cabinska,  fol- 
lowed by  a  few  ladies,  repaired  to  the  boudoir 
for  tea.  In  the  first  room  a  few  tables  were 
arranged  and  a  game  of  cards  commenced. 

Only  Gold  still  sat  at  the  festal  board  and 
ate,  relating  something  to  Glas,  who  was  now 
quite  drunk. 

"  They  are  poor  people.  .  .  .  My  sister  is  a 
widow  with  six  children  ;  I  help  her  as  much  as 
I  can,  but  that  doesn't  amount  to  much.  .  .  . 
And,  in  the  meanwhile,  the  children  are  grow- 
ing up  and  need  ever  more  ..."  Gold  was 
saying. 

"Then  cheat  us  more,  you  dog's  face!  .  .  ." 

"The  elder  is  about  to  take  up  a  medical 


The  Comedienne 


course,  the  next  in  age  is  a  store  clerk  and  the 
rest  of  them  are  such  small  and  weak  and 
sickly  tots  that  it  pains  one  to  look  at 
them! 

"Then  drown  them,  like  puppies!  .  .  . 
Drown  them  and  be  done  with  it!"  mumbled 
Glas. 

1  '  You  are  very  drunk  ..."  whispered  Gold 
scornfully,  "you  have  no  idea  what  children 
are!  ..." 

"Get  married  and  you'll  have  kids  of  your 
own  .  .  ."  stuttered  Glas. 

"I  can't  ...  I  must  first  see  that  these 
are  provided  for,"  replied  Gold  quietly  grasp- 
ing a  cup  of  tea  in  both  hands  and  sipping  it  in 
little  gulps,  "I  must  first  make  men  of  them 
..."  he  added,  his  eyes  glowing. 

All  around  there  was  a  hum  of  voices  as  in 
a  beehive  when  the  swarm  of  young  bees  is 
ready  to  fly  out  into  the  world.  The  hidden 
desires,  envies,  feuds,  and  troubles  broke  out 
irresistibly.  The  talking  grew  louder,  people 
were  denounced  without  pardon,  slandered 
without  mercy,  reviled  and  derided  without 
pity.  Those  assembled  there  had  now  become 
their  natural  selves:  no  one  masked  himself 
any  longer  nor  confined  himself  within  the 


198  The  Comedienne 

bounds  of  one  r61e.  All  played  a  thousand 
different  r61es.  The  hidden  comedy  of  souls 
now  found  its  stage,  its  audience,  and  its 
actors,  often  very  talented  ones. 

Janina  exhilarated  by  the  wine,  conversed 
with  Wawrzecki  about  the  theater.  After- 
wards she  strayed  about  the  rooms,  watched 
the  men  playing  cards,  and  listened  to  a 
variety  of  conversations  and  arguments. 

Janina  roused  herself  from  her  meditations, 
for  Kotlicki  stood  before  her  with  a  cup  of  tea 
in  his  hand  and  with  his  sharp  ennuied  voice 
began  to  speak :  ' '  You  are  observing  the  com- 
pany, mademoiselle?  Truly,  what  remark- 
able energy  there  is  in  all  their  actions,  what 
strong  souls  they  now  appear  to  be!" 

''Your  malice  also  has  strength  ..."  she 
replied  slowly. 

'And  is  wasted  on  slander  and  ridicule,  you 
wished  to  add,  didn't  you?" 

"Almost  so." 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see  .  .  ."  he 
said  slowly,  standing  his  cup  upon  the 
table  and  then,  taking  leave  of  Janina  he 
left  quietly. 

In  the  anteroom  where  the  sleepy  Wicek 
handed  him  his  overcoat,  he  heard  themonot- 


The  Comedienne  199 

onous  whispering  of  the  children's  voices 
behind  the  screen.  He  raised  the  curtain  and 
saw  Cabinski's  four  little  boys  kneeling  in 
their  nightgowns  and  repeating  their  prayers 
after  the  nurse. 

A  small  night-lamp,  glowing  before  a  holy 
picture  above  the  nurse's  bed,  faintly 
illumined  that  group  of  children  and  the  old, 
gray-haired  woman,  who  humbly  bowed  to  the 
ground,  struck  her  breast  with  her  hand  and 
whispered  in  a  tearful  voice : ' '  O  Lamb  of  God, 
who  purgest  the  sins  of  the  world!" 

The  children  repeated  the  words  after  her 
with  drowsy  voices  and  beat  their  breasts  with 
their  little  hands. 

Kotlicki  withdrew  quietly  and  without  a 
smile.  Only  when  he  had  reached  the  stairs, 
he  whispered:  "Well,  well!  We  shall  see,  we 
shall  see.  ..." 

Janina  started  for  the  boudoir,  but  Nied- 
zielska  stopped  her  and  drew  her  into  a  con- 
versation; later  Wladek  joined  them. 

The  company  began  to  break  up. 

"Do  you  live  far  away?"  Niedzielska  asked 
Janina. 

"On  Podwal  Street,  but  in  a  week  at  most 
I  am  moving  to  Widok  Street." 


200  The  Comedienne 

"Ah,  that's  good,  for  we  live  on  Piwna 
Street,  so  we  can  go  together.  ..." 

They  left  immediately.  Niedzielska  took 
Janina  by  the  arm,  while  Wladek  walked 
alongside,  a  little  angry  because  he  had  to 
accompany  his  mother;  he  swore  to  himself, 
while  aloud  he  made  melancholy  remarks 
about  the  weather. 

The  streets  were  deserted  and  silent.  Dawn 
was  already  illumining  the  dark  depths  of  the 
horizon  and  the  outlines  of  the  houses  became 
distinct.  The  gas  lamps  extended  like  an 
endless  golden  chain  with  their  links  of  pale 
flames  diffusing  a  mist  of  light  upon  the  dew- 
covered  sidewalks  and  the  gray  walls  of  the 
houses.  The  fresh  brisk  breeze  of  a  July 
morning  swept  down  the  streets  with  a  strange 
charm  and  tranquility.  The  houses  stood 
silent,  still  wrapt  in  slumber. 

Arrived  at  her  hotel  Niedzielska  kissed 
Janina  with  a  sudden  friendliness  and  they 
parted. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  WILL  you  find  it  comfortable  here?" 

"I  think  so.  It  is  quiet  and  light.  .  .  . 
Who  lived  here  before  me?  " 

"Miss  Nicolette.  She  is  now  at  the  War- 
saw Theater  .  .  .  That's  a  good  omen." 

"No,  not  entirely.  They  are  likely  not  to 
engage  her.  ..." 

"Oh,  they'll  engage  her  all  right.  .  .  .  Miss 
Zarnecka  is  clever,"  said  Mme.  Anna,  the 
daughter  of  Sowinska  into  whose  home  Janina 
had  just  moved. 

She  was  twenty-four  years  old,  neither  home- 
ly nor  pretty  with  an  indefinite  color  of  hair 
and  eyes,  but  with  a  very  definite  slenderness 
and  bad  temper. 

She  conducted  a  dressmaking  establish- 
ment under  the  name  of  Mme.  Anna  and 
although  she  made  her  living  on  actresses  and 
very  often  received  free  tickets  to  the  theater, 
she  never  went  there  and  hated  artists.  There 
were  often  scenes  over  this  with  her  mother, 

201 


202  The  Comedienne 

but  old  Sowinska,  would  not  so  much  as  listen 
to  any  suggestion  that  she  should  abandon  the 
theater.  She  had  become  so  deeply  rooted 
there  that  she  could  not  tear  herself  away, 
although  Mme.  Anna  would  turn  almost 
yellow  from  shame  over  the  fact  that  her 
mother  was  a  theatrical  seamstress.  She  was 
disgustingly  stingy,  ignorant,  pitiless,  and 
jealous. 

Mme.  Anna  examined  Janina's  wardrobe 
with  ill-concealed  malice. 

"All  that  will  have  to  be  made  over,  for  it 
smells  of  the  country,"  she  decreed. 

Janina  began  to  protest  a  little,  maintaining 
that  the  same  styles  could  often  be  seen  in  the 
streets. 

"Yes,  but  who  wears  them,  please  take  no- 
tice of  that :  shop  women  or  shoemakers'  wives ; 
a  self-respecting  woman  will  not  wear  such 
rags!"  Mme.  Anna  scornfully  persisted. 

"Well  then,  have  them  made  over.  I  can 
pay  you  immediately  for  the  work  and  also  a 
full  month's  rent  in  advance." 

"Oh,  there's  no  hurry.  You'll  need  to  buy 
a  few  costumes." 

"I'll  have  enough  left  for  that." 

Janina  paid  thirty  rubles  for  her  room. 


The  Comedienne  203 

"I  am  already  settled  for  good,"  she  later 
said  to  the  old  woman  who  dropped  in  to  see 
her. 

"Bosh,  it  won't  be  for  long !  In  two  months 
you'll  be  moving  again.  An  actor's  life  is  a 
gypsy  life,  from  wagon  to  wagon,  from  town  to 
town.  ..." 

"  Perhaps  at  some  time  I'll  be  able  to  settle 
down  permanently,"  said  Janina. 

Sowinska  smiled  gloomily.  "That  is  the 
way  one  thinks  in  the  beginning,  but  after- 
wards .  .  .  afterwards  it  ends  in  eternal  wan- 
dering. .  .  .  You  become  worn-out  like  a 
rag  and  die  on  a  hotel  bed." 

"Not  all  end  in  that  way,"  answered  Janina 
gaily,  paying  little  attention. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?  .  .  .  It's  not 
at  all  funny!"  cried  Sowinska. 

"Am  I  laughing?  ...  I  merely  said  that 
not  all  end  in  that  way." 

"All  ought  to  end  in  that  way,  every  one  of 
them!"  Sowinska  shouted  angrily  and  left. 

Janina  could  not  understand  either  her  vio- 
lent anger,  or  her  last  words. 

The  days  sped  on.  Janina  absorbed  the 
theater  into  herself  ever  more  deeply.  She 


204  The  Comedienne 

attended  the  rehearsals  regularly,  afterwards 
went  to  give  lessons  for  two  hours  to  Cabinska's 
daughter,  and  later  would  go  home  for  dinner, 
prepare  her  wardrobe  for  the  performance,  and 
at  about  eight  in  the  evening  start  off  again 
for  the  theater. 

On  the  days  when  no  operettas  were  played 
and  the  choruses  were  free,  she  went  to  the 
Summer  Theater  and  there,  squeezed  high  up 
in  the  gallery,  spent  entire  evenings  dreaming. 
She  devoured  with  her  eyes  the  actresses, 
their  gestures,  costumes,  mimicry,  and  voices. 
She  followed  the  action  of  the  plays  so  closely 
that  later  she  could  re-create  them  in  her  mind 
with  detailed  accuracy  and  often,  after  return- 
ing from  the  theater,  she  would  light  the 
candles,  stand  before  the  large  mirror,  and 
repeat  the  acting  which  she  had  seen,  observ- 
ing intently  every  quiver  of  her  facial  expres- 
sion and  trying  out  every  conceivable  pose. 
But  she  was  seldom  satisfied  with  herself. 

The  plays  which  she  saw  left  her  cold  and 
bored.  She  was  not  stirred  by  the  bourgeois 
dramas  with  their  eternal  conventional  con- 
flicts and  flirtations.  She  repeated  the  banal 
lines  of  these  plays  apathetically  and  in  the 
midst  of  some  scene  would  stop  and  go  to  bed. 


The  Comedienne  205 

She  asked  Cabinski  to  give  her  a  r61e  in  the 
cast  of  a  new  play,  but  he  put  her  off  with 
nothing. 

"I  am  keeping  you  in  mind,  but  first  you 
must  familiarize  yourself  with  the  stage.  .  .  . 
When  we  present  some  melodrama  or  folk  play 
you  will  get  a  bigger  r61e  .  .  ."  was  all  he 
said. 

In  the  meanwhile  they  were  playing  only 
operettas,  for  they  filled  the  theater. 

Janina  smiled  in  reply  to  Cabinski's  vague 
promises,  although  torn  by  impatience.  But 
she  had  already  learned  to  control  her  feelings 
and  to  wear  a  mask  of  smiling  indifference. 
She  consoled  herself  with  the  thought  that 
sooner  or  later  she  would  have  done  with  the 
chorus  and  that  the  moment  must  at  last 
arrive  when  she  would  appear  in  a  real  r61e. 

She  had  already  become  saturated  with  the 
atmosphere  in  which  she  lived.  And  that 
public,  so  strange  and  capricious,  which  some 
accused  of  ignorance,  of  a  total  lack  of  taste 
and  higher  desires,  and  others  of  indifference, 
but  to  which  all  paid  homage  and  before  which 
they  all  cringed  and  trembled,  begging  its 
favors — that  public  even  filled  Janina  with 
anger.  There  was  something  strange  in  her 


206  The  Comedienne 

attitude.  She  would  dress  very  fastidiously 
for  the  stage,  merely  for  the  purpose  of  attract- 
ing attention  to  herself;  she  would  adopt  the 
most  graceful  poses,  but  whenever  she  felt  the 
gaze  of  the  multitude  it  would  send  a  depress- 
ing shudder  through  her. 

11  Shoemakers!"  she  would  whisper  scorn- 
fully, thereafter  remaining  in  the  shadow. 

In  the  dressing-room  chorus  girls  passively 
submitted  to  Janina,  for  they  feared  her, 
knowing  that  she  had  intimate  and  continual 
relations  with  the  management.  They  were 
likewise  impressed  by  the  fact  that  Wladek 
followed  her  continually  and  that  Kotlicki,  who 
formerly  used  to  come  behind  the  scenes  only 
occasionally,  now  sat  there  daily  throughout 
the  whole  performance  and  conversed  with 
Janina  with  his  hat  off.  She  was  surrounded 
by  a  sort  of  invisible  aura  of  unconscious 
respect,  for  although  many  surmises  were 
made  about  her  on  account  of  Kotlicki,  no  one 
ever  dared  insinuate  anything  to  her  face. 

At  first,  Janina  inclined  toward  the  leading 
actresses  of  the  company  and  wanted  to  enter 
upon  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  them, 
but  they  discouraged  her,  for  whenever  she 
began  to  speak  to  them  about  the  theater  or 


The  Comedienne  207 

about  art,  they  would  become  silent,  or  else 
commence  to  tell  her  about  their  own  triumphs. 

Stanislawski  and  the  stage-director  were 
Janina's  sincere  friends.  Many  times  during 
the  rehearsals  they  would  go  upstairs  to  the 
deserted  dressing-rooms  or  to  the  storeroom 
under  the  stage,  and  there  tell  stories  of  the 
theater  and  the  actors  of  their  day — an  epoch 
that  was  already  dead.  They  would  conjure 
up  before  her  eyes  great  figures,  great  souls, 
and  great  passions  almost  like  those  she  had 
dreamed  of. 

How  much  advice  they  gave  her  concerning 
enunciations,  classical  pose,  and  the  best 
manner  of  reciting  her  lines!  She  listened 
with  interest,  but  when  she  tried  to  play  the 
fragment  of  some  role  according  to  their 
instructions,  she  found  she  could  not  do  it, 
and  they  would  then  appear  so  stiff,  pathetic 
and  unnatural  that  she  began  to  treat  them 
with  an  indulgent  pity. 

With  Mme.  Anna,  Janina  lived  on  a  footing 
of  cool  politeness.  With  Sowinska  she  was  a 
little  more  intimate,  for  the  old  woman  fawned 
upon  her  as  a  tenant  who  regularly  paid  her 
rent  in  advance.  Sowinska  was  coarse  and 
violent.  There  were  certain  days  that  she 


208  The  Comedienne 

would  eat  nothing,  nor  even  go  to  the  theater, 
but  would  sit  locked  in  her  room,  crying,  or  at 
moments  swearing  extraordinarily. 

After  such  days  she  seemed  even  more 
energetic  and  would  indulge  with  greater  zest 
in  behind-the-stage  intrigues.  She  would 
walk  among  the  audience  and  speak  quietly 
with  the  young  men  who  hung  about  the 
theater.  She  would  bring  the  actresses  invi- 
tations to  suppers,  bouquets,  candy,  and 
letters  and  would  seek  with  a  genuine  zeal  to 
induce  the  stubborn  ones  to  yield  to  the 
advances  made  to  them.  She  accompanied 
the  girls  as  a  chaperon  to  carousals  and  knew 
just  when  to  find  an  important  reason  for 
leaving.  At  such  times  there  would  gleam 
under  her  mask  of  kindhearted  and  wrinkled 
old  age  an  expression  of  cruel  glee. 

Janina  overheard  once  how  the  old  woman 
spoke  to  Shepska,  who  had  joined  the  theater 
after  being  seduced  by  a  member  of  the  chorus. 

"Listen  to  me,  madame!  .  .  .  What  does 
your  lover  give  you?  A  home  on  Brewery 
Street  and  sardines  with  tea  for  breakfast, 
dinner  and  supper.  .  .  .  It's  a  shame  to 
waste  yourself  on  such  a  poor  fool !  Don't  you 
know  that  you  could  live  as  comfortably  as 


The  Comedienne  209 

you  wish  and  laugh  at  Cabinski !  Why  should 
you  have  scruples!  .  .  .  A  person  profits  by 
life  only  as  he  enjoys  it!  ...  A  young  and 
pretty  girl  ought  not  waste  herself  on  a  penni- 
less nobody.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  think  you  will 
the  sooner  get  a  r61e  by  remaining  where  you 
are?  .  .  .  Oho!  when  pears  grow  on  a  pine 
tree!  Only  those  are  given  r61es  who  have 
someone  backing  them." 

Usually  she  accomplished  her  purpose,  and 
though  often  offered  costly  presents,  seldom 
accepted  anything. 

"I  don't  want  them.  If  I  advise  anyone, 
it's  because  I  wish  them  well,"  she  would 
answer  briefly. 

Janina  who  had  learned  enough  of  the  more 
intimate  phases  of  life  behind  the  scenes, 
regarded  Sowinska  with  a  certain  awe.  She 
knew  that  it  was  not  for  gain  that  the  old 
woman  shoved  the  younger  ones  into  the  mire 
of  degradation,  but  for  some  hidden  reason. 
At  times,  she  feared  her,  unable  to  endure  the 
enigmatic  look  with  which  Sowinska  scruti- 
nized her  face.  She  felt  instinctively  that 
Sowinska  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something 
or  watching  for  some  opportunity. 

On  one  of  those  lachrymose  days  of  Sowin- 


14 


210  The  Comedienne 

ska's  Janina,  who  was  just  starting  for  the 
theater,  dropped  in  to  see  her. 

Entering  the  room  she  stood  amazed. 
Sowinska  was  kneeling  beside  an  open  trunk, 
while  on  the  bed,  the  table  and  the  chairs  were 
spread  the  parts  of  some  theatrical  costume 
and  on  the  floor  were  lying  stacks  of  faded 
copies  of  r61es.  Sowinska  was  holding  in  her 
hand  the  photograph  of  a  young  man  with  a 
strange  face,  long  and  so  thin  that  all  the  cheek 
bones  could  be  seen  distinctly  protruding 
through  the  skin.  He  had  an  abnormally 
high  forehead  with  wide  temples  and  a  huge 
head.  Large  eyes  gazed  out  of  the  pale  face 
like  the  sunken  hollows  in  a  dead  man's  skull. 

Sowinska  turned  to  the  girl  with  the  photo- 
graph in  her  hands  and  in  a  voice  trembling 
with  anguish,  whispered:  "Look,  this  is  my 
son  .  .  .  and  these  are  my  sacred  relics !" 

1  'Was  he  an  artist?" 

"An  artist?  ...  I  should  say  so,  but  not 
like  those  monkeys  of  Cabinski's.  How  he 
played!  The  papers  wrote  about  him.  He 
was  in  Plock  and  I  went  to  see  him.  When  he 
appeared  in  The  Robbers  the  whole  theater 
shook  with  applause  and  cries  of  admiration. 
I  sat  behind  the  scenes  and  when  I  heard  his 


The  Comedienne  211 

voice  and  saw  him  I  was  so  overcome  with 
emotion  that  I  thought  I  would  die  for  very 
joy! 

"  I  loved  him  so  dearly  that  I  would  have  let 
myself  be  torn  to  shreds  for  him !  .  .  .  He  was 
an  artist,  an  artist!  He  never  owned  a  penny 
and  poverty  often  devoured  him  like  a  dog,  but 
I  tried  to  help  him  as  much  as  I  could.  I 
slaved  for  him  and  lived  on  nothing  but  tea 
and  bread  to  save  something  for  him." 

She  ceased  speaking  while  tears  flowed  soft'y 
down  her  faded,  pale  face. 

Janina,  after  a  long  silence,  asked  quietly: 
" Where  is  your  son  now?" 

" Where?"  she  answered,  rising  from  the 
floor.  ''Where?  .  .  .  He  is  dead!  He  shot 
himself." 

She  began  to  breathe  heavily. 

"My  whole  life  has  been  like  that!"  she 
began  again.  "His  father  was  a  tailor  and  I 
kept  a  shop.  In  the  beginning  all  went  well 
for  we  had  plenty  of  money  and  a  decent  home. 
My  husband  worked  for  a  circus  and  shortly  a 
performer  caught  his  eye  and  he  followed  her 
into  the  world  when  the  circus  moved  on." 

She  sighed  heavily. 

"I  merely  set  my  teeth  tightly  together. 


212  The  Comedienne 

I  toiled  like  a  galley  slave  to  gain  a  mere  living 
for  myself  and  daughter,  but  I  was  stricken  by 
an  epidemic.  When  I  came  out  of  it,  every- 
thing went  to  the  dogs,  for  my  shop  was  sold 
to  cover  my  debts.  I  was  practically  turned 
out  into  the  street  without  a  penny.  An 
unspeakable  rage  seized  me.  I  borrowed 
money  wherever  I  could  and  together  with  my 
child  went  to  seek  my  husband.  I  found  him 
living  with  a  shopkeeper  in  such  comfort  that 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  us.  I  took  him  by 
the  neck  and  brought  him  back  with  us  to 
Warsaw.  .  .  .  He  staid  with  me  a  whole 
year,  bestowed  another  child  upon  me,  and 
ran  away  again.  My  daughter  grew  up,  we 
took  home  sewing,  and  managed  to  make  a 
living  somehow. 

"Then  after  some  years  they  brought  back 
my  husband — stone-blind.  I  gave  him  a  nook 
in  my  home,  for  my  children  desired  it.  God 
was  at  least  merciful  enough  to  take  him 
away. 

"Later,  I  married  off  my  daughter  to  a  pea- 
sant. One  day  about  two  years  ago,  I  was 
present  at  my  daughter's  name  day  party  to 
which  a  few  relatives  and  friends  had  been 
invited.  In  the  midst  of  it  they  brought  me  a 


\ 


The  Comedienne  213 

telegram  from  Suwalki  asking  me  to  come 
immediately,  for  my  son  was  very  ill." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  gazed  blankly 
about  the  room  and  in  a  low  voice,  filled  with 
despair  whispered  on,  lifting  her  pale  face  to 
Janina's: 

"He  was  already  dead.  .  .  .  They  were 
waiting  for  me  to  bury  him.  ..." 

"Later  they  told  me  that  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  chorus  girl  and  killed  himself  for 
her!  They  showed  her  to  me.  She  was  the 
vilest  sort.  And  that  was  why  he  killed 
himself.  .  .  . 

"When  I  caught  her  in  the  street,  I  would 
have  killed  her,  killed  her  like  a  mad  dog  to 
avenge  my  wrong  and  anguish!  ..."  Sowin- 
ska  shouted  aloud,  clenching  her  fists. 

"Such  is  my  life,  such!  I  curse  it  every 
day,  but  cannot  forget  .  .  .  all  that  still  burns 
here  in  my  bosom  ...  I  am  in  the  theater, 
for  it  always  seems  to  me  that  he  will  return, 
that  he  is  already  dressing  and  will  immedi- 
ately appear  on  the  stage  .  .  . 

"My  God,  God!  ...  Ah,  it  *was  not  he 
that  was  to  blame,  but  she  .  .  .  you  girls  tear 
to  pieces  a  mother's  heart  ...  I  would 
trample  you  all  underfoot  like  so  many  worms, 


214  The  Comedienne 

into  the  mud,  into  poverty,  so  that  you  might 
agonize  as  I  do  ...  so  that  you  might  suffer, 
suffer,  suffer.  ..." 

She  ceased,  breathing  heavily.  Her  yellow 
waxen  face  glared  with  wild  hatred.  Her  wrin- 
kles twitched  and  her  pale  bitten  lips  seethed. 

Janina  had  been  standing  all  the  while 
eagerly  absorbing  her  every  word  and  gesture. 
The  overwhelming  reality  of  Sowinska's  grief, 
so  simple  and  strong,  had  called  forth  a  respon- 
sive chord  in  her  own  heart. 

She  was  standing  in  the  street,  wondering 
where  she  should  go,  when  a  voice  behind  her 
said:  "Good  morning,  Miss  Orlowska!" 

She  turned  about  quickly.  Mrs.  Niedziel- 
ska,  Wladek's  mother,  was  standing  before  her 
with  a  smile  on  her  aged,  simple  face. 

Janina  greeted  her  hastily. 

"I  was  about  to  take  a  walk,"  she  said. 

' '  Perhaps  you  will  drop  into  my  house  for  a 
minute?  ..."  begged  Niedzielska  quietly. 
"  I  am  so  much  alone  that  often  for  whole  days 
I  don't  see  anyone  except  Anna  and  the 
janitor." 

She  hobbled  slowly  along. 

"Certainly,  I  still  have  a  little  time  before 
the  performance,"  answered  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  215 

"  You're  not  in  the  theater  very  long,  are 
you?" 

"Only  three  weeks." 

"I  could  tell  that  right  away!" 

"How?" 

"I  can't  exactly  explain.  I  watched  you  at 
Cabinska's  party  and  immediately  knew  that 
you  were  a  newcomer.  I  even  mentioned  it 
toWladek  ..." 

"Please make  yourself  at  home.  .  .  .  I'll  be 
with  you  in  a  minute.  Niedzielska  played 
hostess  quite  grandly,  once  they  were  arrived 
at  her  home. 

Janina,  left  alone,  observed  with  curiosity 
the  old-fashioned  mahogany  table  covered 
with  an  embroidered  net  doily  which  stood 
before  a  huge  lounge  upholstered  with  black 
horsehair;  the  chairs,  upholstered  with  the 
same  material,  had  lyre-shaped  backs.  A 
yellow  polished  dresser  was  filled  with  gro- 
tesque porcelain,  greenish  pitchers,  colored 
bric-a-brac,  wineglasses  with  monograms,  and 
flower-painted  teacups  standing  on  high  legs. 
A  clock  under  a  bell  glass,  old,  faded  steel 
engravings  of  the  Empire  period,  a  lamp  with 
a  green  shade  on  a  separate  table,  a  few  pots 
with  miserable  flowers  on  the  window  sill  and 


216  The  Comedienne 

two  cages  with  canaries  constituted  the  entire 
furnishings. 

"Let  us  have  a  drink  of  coffee  .  .  . "  said 
Niedzielska,  r  centering. 

She  took  from  the  dresser  two  showy  cups 
and  placed  them  on  the  table.  Then  she  went 
to  the  kitchen  and  brought  in  the  coffee, 
already  poured  into  two  chipped  bowls,  and  a 
plate  with  a  few  stale  cakes. 

"  O  goodness,  I  forgot  that  I  had  already  set 
the  cups  on  the  table  .  .  .  well,  it  doesn't 
matter.  We  can  drink  the  coffee  just  as  well 
out  of  these,  can't  we?  ..."  she  said,  at  once 
adding,  "dear  me,  I  forgot  the  sugar!  Do 
you  like  your  coffee  sweet,  mademoiselle?" 

The  old  woman  left  the  room  and  through 
the  door  Janina  could  hear  her  taking  sugar 
out  of  a  glass  bowl.  She  brought  in  on  a  little 
saucer  two  lumps. 

"Please  have  some  in  your  coffee.  .  .  . 
You  see  at  my  age  I  can't  have  anything 
sweet,"  she  said,  drinking  audibly. 

Finally,  after  perhaps  half  an  hour,  in  which 
her  hostess  chattered  interminably  and  Janina 
listened  with  increasing  weariness,  the  girl 
got  up  to  go,  and  at  the  very  door  she  met 
Wladek. 


The  Comedienne  217 

4 'Visiting  my  mother!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Certainly.  There's  nothing  wrong  in 
that,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  his  confusion. 

"Heavens!  No  doubt  she's  been  telling 
you  what  a  scoundrel  I  am.  I  beg  your  par- 
don for  having  had  to  listen." 

"Oh,  it  didn't  offend  me  in  the  least." 

"It  only  made  you  laugh,  I  know.  The 
whole  theater  is  laughing  at  my  expense,  for 
all  the  ladies  have  already  been  here." 

"Your  mother  loves  you,"  Janina  spoke 
seriously. 

' '  That  love  is  beginning  to  choke  me  like  a 
bone  in  my  throat!"  he  answered  sourly  and 
wanted  to  add  something  else,  but  Janina 
bowed  silently  and  passed  on. 

Wladek  did  not  have  the  courage  to  follow 
her  and  went  upstairs. 

"What  is  happening  in  my  own  home? "  she 
thought  as  she  walked  toward  the  theater. 
"What  is  my  father  doing?  ..." 

And  she  suddenly  felt  within  herself  a 
glimmer  of  sympathy  for  that  tyrant.  She 
saw  now  how  lonely  he  must  be  among  stran- 
gers who  ridiculed  his  eccentricities. 

During  the  whole  performance,  the  vision 
of  her  father  constantly  recurred  in  her  mem- 


218  The  Comedienne 

ory.  She  asked  herself  what  it  was  that  had 
made  him  so  cruel,  and  why  he  hated  her? 

Kotlicki  brought  her  a  bouquet  of  roses.  She 
received  it  coolly,  without  even  glancing  at  him. 

"I  see  that  you  are  out  of  sorts  to-day,  "he 
said,  taking  her  hand. 

She  pulled  it  away. 

Majkowska,  who  was  just  then  passing, 
whispered,  pointing  to  Rosinska:  "What  a 
scarecrow!  What  conventional  acting!  She 
is  incapable  of  producing  even  a  single  accent 
of  true  feeling!" 

Behind  Janina  some  gentleman  in  a  high  hat 
was  pressing  the  hands  of  one  of  the  chorus 
girls. 

"Things  are  turning  out  fine,  for  to-morrow, 
there  will  be  no  rehearsal  and  we  can  go  to 
Bielany  in  the  afternoon.  Wait  for  us  at  your 
home,  we  will  drop  in  and  take  you  along  with 
us,"  whispered  Mimi. 

"I  also  am  going  on  that  outing,"  said 
Kotlicki,  "you  are  going  too,  aren't  you?" 

"Probably  ...  but  if  I  couldn't  go  it 
would  be  just  as  great  a  success." 

"In  that  case  I  wouldn't  go  either." 

He  bent  so  closely  over  Janina  that  she 
felt  his  breath  upon  her  face. 


The  Comedienne  219 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said,  moving 
away  from  him. 

"I  am  going  along  only  for  your  sake,"  he 
whispered  in  a  still  quieter  tone. 

"For  my  sake?  .  .  ."  she  queried,  glancing 
at  him  sharply,  and  stirred  by  a  sudden 
aversion. 

"Yes  .  .  .  surely  you  must  have  guessed 
by  now  that  I  love  you,"  said  Kotlicki,  draw- 
ing together  his  lips  which  were  trembling 
and  looking  at  her  pleadingly. 

"There  they  say  the  same,  only  they  play  a 
little  better!"  she  remarked  scornfully,  point- 
ing to  the  stage. 

Kotlicki  drew  himself  erect,  a  sullen  shadow 
passed  over  his  equine  face,  his  eyes  gleaming 
threateningly. 

"I  will  convince  you!  ..." 

"Very  well,  but  to-morrow  at  Bielany,  not 
now,"  Janina  coolly  extended  her  hand  in  fare- 
well and  left  for  the  dressing-room. 

Kotlicki  gazed  after  her  covetously,  biting 
his  lips. 

"A  comedienne!"  he  finally  whispered, 
leaving  the  theater. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JANINA  awoke  at  about  half -past  ten  in  the 
morning.  Sowinska  had  just  brought  in  her 
breakfast. 

"Was  anyone  here  to  see  me?  ..."  she 
asked. 

Sowinska  nodded  her  head  and  handed 
Janina  a  letter. 

"About  an  hour  ago  a  ruddy  fellow  deliv- 
ered it  and  asked  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

Janina  nervously  tore  open  the  envelope 
and  immediately  recognized  the  handwriting 
of  Grzesikiewicz : — 

"Mv  DEAR  Miss  ORLOWSKA: 

"I  have  purposely  come  to  Warsaw  to  see 
you  on  a  very  important  matter.  If  you  will 
kindly  deign  to  be  home  at  eleven  o'clock  I 
shall  be  there  at  that  hour.  Please  pardon  my 
boldness.  Allow  me  to  kiss  your  hands  and 
remain  humble  servantj 

GRZESIKIEWICZ/' 

220 


The  Comedienne  221 

"  What's  going  to  happen?  ..."  thought 
Janina,  dressing  hastily.  "What  kind  of 
important  matter  can  it  be  that  he  writes  of? 
Concerning  my  father?  .  .  .  Can  it  be  that  he 
is  ill  and  longing  for  me?  .  .  .  Oh  no!  No!" 

She  quickly  drank  her  tea,  tidied  her  room 
and  patiently  awaited  Grzesikiewicz's  visit. 
The  thought  of  seeing,  at  last  some  one  of  her 
own  people  from  Bukowiec  even  filled  her 
with  a  certain  joy. 

"Perhaps  he  will  propose  to  me  again?" 
Janina  thought  to  herself.  And  she  saw  his 
big  weather-beaten  face,  bronzed  by  the  sun, 
and  those  blue  eyes  gazing  so  mildly  from 
beneath  his  shock  of  flaxen  hair.  She  remem- 
bered too,  his  embarrassed  shyness. 

"A  good,  honest  man!"  she  said  to  herself, 
walking  up  and  down  the  room ;  but  then  the 
thought  occurred  to  her  that  his  visit  was 
likely  to  spoil  her  intended  trip  to  Bielany, 
and  her  enthusiasm  began  to  cool.  She 
determined  she  would  speak  to  him  briefly. 

"I  wonder  what  he  wants  of  me?"  Janina 
asked  herself  uneasily,  assuming  the  most 
impossible  things. 

"  My  father  must  be  very  sick  and  wants  me 
to  come  to  him,"  she  answered  herself. 


222  The  Comedienne 

.. 
She  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  almost 

dazed,  with  fear  that  she  must  return  to 
Bukowiec. 

"No,  it  is  impossible!  .  .  .  I  couldn't  stand 
it  there  a  single  week  .  .  .  and  moreover,  he 
drove  me  away  from  home  forever  ..." 

A  chaotic  conflict  between  hate,  sorrow, 
and  a  quiet,  scarcely  perceptible  feeling  of 
homesickness  began  to  rage  in  Janina's  heart. 

The  bell  rang  in  the  anteroom. 

Janina  sat  down  and  waited  quietly.  She 
heard  the  door  opening,  the  voices  of  Grzesik- 
iewicz  and  Sowinska,  and  the  sound  of  an 
overcoat  being  hung  up. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  a  voice  outside. 

"Please  do,"  she  whispered,  choking  with 
trepidation  as  she  arose  from  her  chair. 

Grzesikiewicz  entered.  His  face  was  even 
more  sunburnt  than  usual  and  his  blue  eyes 
seemed  bluer.  He  walked  stiffly  and  erectly 
like  a  petrified  block  of  meat  squeezed  into  a 
tight  surtout  with  difficulty.  He  almost 
threw  his  hat  upon  a  basket  standing  near  the 
door  and,  kissing  Janina's  hand,  said  quickly: 
"Good  morning  ..." 

He  straightened  himself,  scanned  her  face 
with  his  eyes  and  sat  down  heavily  in  a  chair. 


The  Comedienne  223 

"I  had  a  hard  time  finding  you  .  .  ."he 
began,  and  suddenly  broke  off.  Then,  as  if  to 
bolster  up  his  courage,  he  attempted  to  shove 
aside  a  chair  that  interfered  with  his  actions 
but  pushed  it  so  hard  that  it  fell  over. 

He  sprang  up,  all  red  in  the  face,  and  began 
to  apologize. 

Janina  smiled,  so  vividly  did  that  impulsive 
action  remind  her  of  their  last  talk  and  that 
unfortunate  proposal.  And  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  was  now  that  he  was  to 
propose  and  that  they  were  sitting  in  the  quiet 
parlor  at  Bukowiec.  She  could  not  explain 
to  herself  the  impression  that  he  made  on  her 
with  that  honest  face,  worn  by  suffering,  and 
with  those  bright  blue  eyes  which  seemed  to 
bring  with  them  echoes  of  those  beloved  fields 
and  woods,  those  quiet  glens,  that  golden  sun- 
light and  the  free  and  bounteous  life  of  nature. 
For  one  fleeting  moment  her  mind  dwelt  on  all 
this,  but  at  the  same  time  there  awoke  memo- 
ries of  all  her  sufferings  and  her  banishment. 

She  handed  him  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  said 
in  an  easy  tone,  breaking  the  somewhat  pro- 
longed silence:  "You  give  proof  of  no  small 
courage  and  .  .  .  kindness  by  visiting  me 
after  all  that  has  happened.  ..." 


224  The  Comedienne 

"Do  you  remember  what  I  told  you  the  last 
time,"  he  answered,  subduing  and  softening 
his  voice,  "that  I  would  never  and  always! . . . 
That  I  would  never  cease  and  would  always 
continue  to  love  you!" 

Janina  moved  impatiently,  for  his  deeply 
sincere  accent  pained  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ...  if  it  makes  you 
angry,  I  will  not  say  another  word  about 
myself  .  .  ."he  said  with  resignation. 

"What  is  the  news  from  home?"  she  asked, 
raising  her  eyes  to  his. 

"How  can  I  tell  you?  .  .  .  It's  some- 
thing that  beggars  all  description.  You  would 
not  know  your  father;  he  has  become  an 
impossible  autocrat  in  his  official  duties,  and 
outside  of  them  he  goes  hunting,  visits  his 
neighbors,  whistles  to  himself  .  .  .  but  has 
become  so  thin  and  worn  that  it  is  hard  to 
recognize  him.  Worry  is  eating  him  away 
like  a  canker." 

"Why?  .  .  .  What  is  there  for  my  father 
to  worry  about?" 

"My  God!  How  can  you  ask  such  a 
question?  Are  you  joking,  or  haven't  you  a 
spark  of  feeling  in  you?  .  .  .  Why  is  he 
worrying?  .  .  .  Because  you  are  away  .  .  . 


The  Comedienne  225 

because  he,  like  all  of  us,  is  dying  with  longing 
for  you!  ..." 

"And  what  about  Krenska?  ..."  Janina 
asked  with  apparent  calmness,  although 
stirred  deeply  by  what  he  had  told  her. 

"What  has  Krenska  to  do  with  this?  .  .  . 
He  threw  her  out  the  very  next  day  after  your 
departure,  afterwards  received  a  few  days' 
official  leave  from  his  duties  and  left  Buko- 
wiec.  ...  In  about  a  week  he  returned  so 
woebegone  and  haggard  that  we  scarcely 
recognized  him.  Even  strangers  are  crying 
over  him,  but  you  had  no  pity  on  him  and 
went  forth  into  the  world  .  .  .  and  what  kind 
of  world,  besides?  ..." 

Janina  sprang  up  violently  from  her  chair. 

* '  Yes,  you  may  be  angry  with  me  if  you  will, 
but  I  love  you,  I  love  you  too  well,  and  we  all 
love  you  too  well  to  be  denied  the  right  to 
speak  what  we  feel.  Have  me  thrown  out  of 
here  if  you  will,  and  I'll  not  complain,  but  I'll 
wait  for  you  at  the  street  door  or  meet  you 
anywhere  else  and  keep  telling  you  that  your 
father  is  dying  without  you  and  that  he  is 
growing  sicker  and  weaker  every  day!  My 
mother  came  across  him  not  so  long  ago  in  the 
woods :  he  was  lying  in  some  bushes  and  crying 


226  The  Comedienne 

like  a  child.  You  are  killing  him.  Both  of 
you  are  killing  each  other  with  your  pride  and 
unrelenting  stubbornness.  You  are  the  best 
woman  in  the  world  and  I  feel  that  you  will 
not  leave  him  alone,  that  you  will  return  and 
give  up  theatrical  life.  .  .  .  Aren't  you 
ashamed  of  associating  with  such  a  band  of 
scoundrels?  .  .  .  How  can  you  possibly 
exhibit  yourself  on  the  stage !  ..." 

He  broke  off  and  breathing  heavily,  wiped 
his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief.  Never  before 
had  he  said  so  much  at  one  time. 

Janina  sat  with  bowed  head,  her  face  as  pale 
as  a  sheet,  her  lips  set  tightly  and  her  heart 
filled  with  a  storm  of  rebellion  and  suffering. 
That  sharp  voice  which  she  had  just  heard  had 
in  it  such  a  tearful,  deep  and  soul-stirring 
expression  and  those  words:  "Your  father  is 
suffering  .  .  .  your  father  is  crying  .  .  .  your 
father  is  longing  for  you!"  penetrated  her 
with  so  sharp  a  grief  and  harried  her  so  pain- 
fully, that  at  moments  she  wanted  to  spring 
up  and  go  to  him  as  quickly  as  she  could ;  but 
then  again,  memories  of  the  past  would  flood 
her  brain  and  she  would  become  cool  and 
hardened.  Finally  she  recalled  the  theater 
and  became  entirely  indifferent. 


The  Comedienne  227 

"No!  He  has  driven  me  away  forever. 
...  I  am  alone  in  the  world  and  will  remain 
alone.  I  could  not  live  without  the  theater! " 
Janina  said  to  herself  and  there  arose  in  her 
again  that  mad  desire  for  theatrical  con- 
quest. 

Grzesikiewicz  also  became  silent,  his  eyes 
clouding  mistily.  He  devoured  her  with  his 
eyes,  and  had  a  great  desire  to  fall  on  his 
knees  before  her,  kiss  her  hands  and  feet  and 
the  hem  of  her  dress  and  beg  her  to  listen  to 
him  .  .  .  Then  again,  when  he  remembered 
the  whole  tragedy  of  the  situation,  he  felt 
like  springing  up  from  his  chair  and  smashing 
everything  that  came  in  his  way;  or  again 
such  a  violent  grief  would  convulse  him  that 
he  could  have  cried  aloud  in  sheer  despair. 

He  sat  and  gazed  at  that  beloved  face,  now 
pale  and  worn,  on  which  the  feverish  night  life 
of  the  theater  had  already  left  its  imprint,  and 
he  felt  that  he  would  give  his  very  life  for  her, 
if  she  would  only  go  back. 

Janina  finally  bent  on  him  eyes  that  were 
glowing  with  irrevocable  determination. 

1 '  You  must  know  how  my  father  hates  me ; 
you  must  also  know  that,  when  I  refused  to 
marry  you,  he  drove  me  out  of  his  house  for- 


228  The  Comedienne 

ever  ...  he  almost  cursed  me  and  drove  me 
out  ..."  she  repeated  with  bitterness.  "I 
left  because  I  had  to,  but  I  will  never  return. 
I  will  not  exchange  the  freedom  of  the  theater 
for  slavery  at  home.  Things  happened  as 
they  did  because  they  had  to.  My  father 
told  me  at  that  time  that  he  had  no  longer 
a  daughter,  and  I  now  answer  that  I  have  no 
longer  a  father.  We  have  parted  and  will 
never  be  reunited  again.  I  am  entirely  able  to 
shift  for  myself,  and  art  will  suffice  me  for 
everything." 

"So  you  will  not  return?"  asked  Grzesikie- 
wicz,  for  that  was  all  he  understood  of  her 
words. 

"No!  I  have  no  home  and  I  will  not  for- 
sake the  theater!"  replied  Janina  in  a  calm 
voice,  regarding  him  coolly,  but  her  pale  lips 
trembled  a  little  and  her  bosom  throbbed 
violently,  convulsed  by  the  conflict  within. 

"You  will  kill  him  ...  he  loves  you  so 
...  he  will  not  outlive  such  a  blow.  .  .  ." 
said  Grzesikiewicz  gently. 

"No,  Andrew,  my  father  does  not  love  me. 
A  person  whom  you  love  you  do  not  torment 
for  whole  years  at  a  time  and  then  drive  away 
from  home  like  the  worst.  .  .  .  Even  a  dog 


The  Comedienne  229 

does  not  turn  its  young  ones  out  .  .  .  even 
an  animal  never  does  what  was  done  to  me!" 

"I  have  seen  and  know  how  bitterly  he 
regrets  those  reckless  words  and  how  hard  it  is 
for  him  to  live  without  you.  I  swear  that  you 
will  make  him  happy  by  returning!  That 
you  will  restore  him  to  life!" 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  he  desired  me  to 
return  to  Bukowiec?  Perhaps  he  has  given 
you  a  letter  for  me?  Please  tell  me  the  whole 
truth!"  she  spoke  rapidly. 

Grzesikiewicz  hesitated  in  confusion  and 
became  even  sadder. 

"No.  He  neither  said  anything  about  it, 
nor  gave  me  a  letter  for  you,"  he  answered, 
lowering  his  voice. 

"So  that  is  how  much  he  loves  me  and  how 
greatly  he  longs  to  see  me?  Ha!  ha!  ha! "  she 
laughed  harshly. 

"Don't  you  know  him  yet?  He  will  die  of 
thirst  rather  than  beg  a  glass  of  water.  When 
I  was  leaving  and  told  him  where  I  was  going, 
he  did  not  say  a  word,  but  looked  at  me  in 
such  a  way  and  gripped  my  hand  so  firmly 
that  I  understood  him  entirely.  ..." 

"No,  you  did  not  understand  him  at  all. 
My  father  is  not  at  all  concerned  about  me ;  he 


230  The  Comedienne 

is  only  concerned  over  the  fact  that  the  whole 
neighborhood  must  be  speaking  about  my 
departure  and  my  joining  the  theater.  .  .  . 
Surely,  Krenska  must  have  left  no  stone 
unturned.  ...  He  is  concerned  only  about 
the  gossip  that  is  circulating.  He  feels  dis- 
graced through  me.  He  would  like  to  see  me 
broken  and  begging  forgiveness  at  his  feet. 
That  is  what  he  is  anxious  about ! " 

"You  do  not  know  him!    Such  hearts  .  .  ." 

Janina  hastily  interruped  him :  ' '  Let  us  not 
speak  of  hearts  where  on  one  side  they  do  not 
at  all  enter  into  the  question,  where  they  are 
entirely  lacking  and  there  is  only  an 
insane  ..." 

"So  then?  .  .  . "  he  asked  rising,  for  he  was 
choking  with  a  spasm  of  anger. 

The  bell  in  the  hall  rang  sharply,  evidently 
pulled  violently  by  someone. 

"I  will  never  return,"  said  Janina  with 
final  determination. 

"Janina  .  .  .  have  mercy  ..." 

"I  do  not  understand  that  word,"  she 
answered  with  emphasis,  "and  I  repeat: 
never!  unless  it  be  ...  after  I  am  dead." 

"Don't  say  that,  for  ..." 

He  did  not  finish  for  the  door  suddenly 


The  Comedienne  231 

swung  wide  open  and  Mimi  with  Wawrzecki 
came  rushing  in. 

"Well,  are  you  coming?  Hurry  and  dress 
yourself ,  for  we  start  immediately !  .  .  .  Ah, 
I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  know  you  had  a 
visitor,"  cried  Mimi,  observing  Grzesikiewicz 
who'  took  his  hat,  bowed  automatically,  and, 
without  looking  at  anyone,  whispered. 

"Good-bye." 

And  without  more  ado  he  left. 

Janina  sprang  up  as  though  she  wished  to 
detain  him,  but  Kotlicki  and  Topolski  were 
just  then  entering  and  greeted  her  jocularly. 
After  them  came  some  third  person. 

"What  sort  of  broad  gentleman  was  that? 
As  I  live,  it  is  the  first  time  that  I  saw  such  a 
mass  of  meat  in  a  surtout!"  cried  that  third 
comer. 

"This  is  Mr.  Glogowski.  In  a  week  we  are 
to  present  his  play  and  in  a  month  he  will  be 
famous  throughout  Europe! "  said  Wawrzecki, 
introducing  him. 

"And  in  three  months  my  fame  will  reach 
Mars  with  all  its  appurtenances!  .  .  .  If  you 
are  going  to  bluff,  at  least  let  it  be  a  good  bluff/' 
laughed  Glogowski. 

Janina  greeted  them  all,  and  in  a  subdued 


232  The  Comedienne 

voice  answered  Mimi  who  was  asking  her 
about  Grzesikiewicz :  "An  old  friend  of  mine 
and  former  neighbor,  a  very  honest  man  .  .  ." 

"He  must  be  flushed  with  money,  that 
youth  ...  he  looks  it!"  exclaimed  Glogow- 
ski. 

"Yes,  he  is  wealthy.  His  family  owns  the 
largest  sheep-growing  ranch  in  Congressional 
Poland  ..." 

"A  shepherd!  ...  he  rather  looks  as 
though  he  were  a  keeper  of  elephants!  ..." 
jested  Wawrzecki. 

Kotlicki  only  smiled  and  discreetly  observed 
Janina. 

"  Something  must  have  happened  here  .  .  . 
for  her  voice  shows  she  is  deeply  moved,"  he 
thought.  "Perhaps  that  was  her  former 
lover?  .  .  ." 

"Come,  hurry,  for  Mela  is  waiting  down- 
stairs in  a  hack,"  cried  Mimi  impatiently. 

Janina  dressed  hastily  and  they  all  went  out 
together. 

They  rode  to  the  bank  of  the  Wisla  and  from 
there  took  a  boat  to  Bielany. 

All  were  in  a  springtime  humor,  except 
Janina.  She  sat  gloomily  rapt  in  thought. 

Kotlicki  chatted  jovially,  Wawrzecki  jested 


The  Comedienne  233 

with  Glogowski  and  the  women  took  part  in 
the  merriment,  but  Janina  hardly  heard  a 
thing  that  was  being  said.  She  was  still 
pondering  her  conversation  with  Grzesikiewicz 
and  the  heavy  feeling  it  had  left  in  her  heart. 

''Is  anything  troubling  you?"  Kotlicki 
asked  with  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"Me?  Oh  nothing!  .  .  .  I  was  just  mus- 
ing upon  human  misery,"  she  answered. 

"  It  is  not  worth  thinking  of  anything  that  is 
not  pleasure,  full  of  life  and  youth  ..." 

11  Don't  complete  that  nonsense.  It  is  just 
as  if  you  were  to  eat  off  the  butter  on  a  piece 
of  bread  and  then  muse  over  your  dry  crust 
that  you  did  a  foolish  thing  after  all,"  inter- 
posed Glogowski,  "I  see  you  do  not  like  to  eat, 
only  to  lick  at  things." 

"My  dear  sir,  I  have  the  honor  of  knowing 
that  ever  since  I  was  a  schoolboy,"  Kotlicki 
retorted  sarcastically. 

"That  isn't  the  point;  the  point  is  that  you 
advocate  downright  silly  things.  For  instance 
indulgence,  while  you  have  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity to  prove  upon  yourself  the  sad  results 
of  that  jolly  theory." 

"Both  in  life  and  in  literature  you  are 
always  paradoxical." 


234  The  Comedienne 

• 

"I'll  wager  you  have  weak  lungs,  arthritis, 
neurasthenia  and  ..." 

"Count  up  to  twenty." 

They  began  to  argue  vehemently  and  then 
to  quarrel. 

The  boat  had  passed  the  railroad  bridge  and 
the  vast  calm  of  the  open  country  enveloped 
them  on  all  sides.  The  sun  was  shining 
brightly,  but  a  chill  dampness  arose  from  the 
murky  waters  of  the  river.  The  small  waves, 
saturated  with  light,  like  serpents  with  gleam- 
ing scales,  splashed  about  in  the  sunlight. 
The  long  sand  dunes  resembled  water  giants, 
basking  in  the  sun  with  yellow  upturned 
bellies.  A  string  of  scows  floated  before  them ; 
the  pilot  in  a  small  cockleshell  boat  rowed 
on  in  front  and  every  now  and  then  would 
raise  his  voice  in  a  cry  which  echoed  across 
the  water  and  reached  them  in  a  confused 
medley  of  tones.  A  few  boatmen  plied  their 
oars  with  automatic  motion  and  their  sad 
song  was  wafted  to  the  party  and  floated  above 
their  heads.  Afterwards  a  growing  silence 
began  to  spread  around  them. 

The  mild  verdure  of  the  shores,  the  sunlit 
trail  of  the  waters  gleaming  with  the  sheeny 
softness  of  satin,  the  gentle  rocking  of  the 


The  Comedienne  235 

boat,  the  rhythmical  stroke  of  the  oars  uncon- 
sciously imposed  a  silence  upon  everybody. 

"I  will  not  return!"  thought  Janina,  auto- 
matically repeating  those  words,  while  she 
gazed  upon  the  blue  expanse  of  waters  and 
pursued  with  her  eyes  the  waves  that  fled 
swiftly  on  before  her,  "I  will  not  return!" 

She  felt  that  loneliness  was  embracing  her 
with  ever  wider  arms  and  surrounding  her 
soul  with  an  emptiness  into  which  she  gazed 
defiantly.  Her  sorrow,  the  thought  of  her 
father  and  Grzesikiewicz,  all  her  former 
acquaintances  and  her  whole  past  seemed  to 
be  flowing  on  far  behind  her  so  that  she  saw 
them  dimly  in  the  distant  gray  mist  and  only 
the  faint  echo  of  an  entreaty  or  of  weeping 
seemed  to  reach  her  now  and  then. 

No!  she  would  not  have  the  strength  to  turn 
back  and  swim  against  that  current  that  was 
bearing  her  onward.  Nevertheless,  she  felt 
that  tears  were  dropping  upon  her  heart  and 
burning  it  with  bitterness. 

They  disembarked  at  the  landing-stage  at 
Bielany  and  began  to  wind  their  way  up  the 
hill. 

Janina  walked  ahead  of  the  company  with 
Kotlicki  who  did  not  leave  her  for  a  moment. 


236  The  Comedienne 

"You  owe  me  a  reply,"  he  said  after  a  while, 
assuming  a  tender  expression. 

"I  answered  you  yesterday,  and  to-day  you 
owe  me  an  explanation,"  she  said  harshly,  for 
now,  after  that  recent  conversation  with 
Grzesikiewicz  and  all  that  it  had  cost  her,  she 
felt  an  almost  physical  aversion  and  hatred 
toward  Kotlicki;  he  struck  her  as  repulsive 
and  brazen. 

"An  explanation?  .  .  .  Can  one  explain 
love  or  analyze  a  feeling?  .  .  ."  he  began, 
uneasily  biting  his  thin  lips.  He  did  not  like 
the  tone  of  her  voice. 

"Let  us  be  sincere,  for  what  you  told  me 
is  .  .  ."  she  cried  impulsively. 

"Is  sincerity  itself." 

"No,  it  is  only  a  comedy!"  Janina  retorted 
sharply  and  felt  a  great  desire  to  strike  him 
in  the  face. 

"You  offend  me!  One  can  believe  a  per- 
son's feelings  without  sharing  them,"  he  said 
in  a  quieter  tone  so  that  those  who  followed 
them  would  not  hear. 

"Now  please  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say! 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  your  comedy  not  only 
wearies  me,  but  is  beginning  to  anger  me.  I 
am  still  too  little  a  hysterical  actress  and  too 


The  Comedienne  237 

much  a  normal  woman  to  take  pleasure  in 
such  acting.  I  was  never  taught  by  my 
mother,  the  secret  code  of  a  woman's  conduct 
toward  a  man,  nor  did  they  warn  me  of  man's 
falsehood  and  baseness.  I  observed  that 
quickly  enough  for  myself,  and  see  it  every 
day  behind  the  scenes.  You  think  that  to 
every  woman  who  is  in  the  theater  you  can 
boldly  talk  about  your  love  as  though  it  were 
some  trifle,  in  the  hope  that  perhaps  she  will 
swallow  your  bait!  Actresses  are  so  playful 
and  so  silly,  aren't  they?"  she  said  with 
stinging  scorn.  "  Would  you  dare  to  tell  me 
the  same,  if  I  were  at  home?  No,  you 
wouldn't  dare  tell  me  you  loved  me,  if  you 
didn't,  for  there,  I  would  be  a  woman  in  your 
eyes,  while  here  I  am  only  an  actress ;  for  there, 
I  would  have  behind  me  a  father,  mother, 
brothers  or  some  convention  which  wou'd 
prohibit  you  from  many  things.  But  here, 
you  don't  hesitate.  And  why?  Because  here 
I  am  alone  and  an  actress,  that  is  a  woman  to 
whom  you  can  with  impunity  tell  lies,  whom 
you  can  with  impunity  possess  and  then  cast 
off  and  go  your  way  without  the  slightest  fear 
of  losing  your  reputation.  Oh,  you  can  be 
sure,  Mr.  Kotlicki,  that  I  will  not  become  your 


238  The  Comedienne 

• : 

mistress,  nor  any  other  man's  if  I  do  not  love 
him!  I  have  already  thought  much,  too 
much,  about  the  matter  to  be  deceived  by  fine 
phrases!"  She  spoke  rapidly,  and  her  sharp 
words  fell  like  blows. 

He  trembled  with  impatience  and  gazed  on 
her  in  amazement.  He  did  not  know  her, 
and  had  not  assumed  for  a  moment  that  he 
would  find  an  actress  who  would  tell  him  such 
things  to  his  face.  He  gazed  at  her  through 
half-closed  eyes,  and  stammered  ever  more 
frequently,  so  immensely  did  he  like  her  for  her 
courage.  She  fascinated  him  by  her  strength 
of  character  and  honesty,  for  by  those  words 
she  had  spoken,  by  her  face  which  faithfully 
reflected  all  her  inner  feelings,  and  by  the 
sincere  tones  of  her  voice  he  began  to  perceive 
that  she  was  an  honest  and  uncommon  girl; 
and  in  addition  she  was  so  beautiful ! 

"The  whip  was  rawhide  with  leaden 
weights  at  the  end  of  it.  You  beat  with  a 
womanly  fury  both  the  guilty  and  the  inno- 
cent," said  Kotlicki,  and  seeing  that  Janina 
did  not  answer  he  added  after  a  while,  ' '  Is  this 
not  enough  for  you?  If  it  would  be  possible 
during  that  entire  flagellation  to  kiss  your 
hands,  I  beg  you  to  continue  ..." 


The  Comedienne  239 

"Kotlicki!  .  .  .  Wait  a  minute  there  and 
help  us  carry  the  baskets!  .  .  ."  called 
Wawrzecki. 

The  men  carried  the  baskets  with  the  pro- 
visions, while  the  whole  company  walked 
along  the  steep  river  bank,  seeking  a  conven- 
ient spot  for  a  camping  ground. 

All  about  them  the  lonely  wood  rustled 
softly  with  its  young  oak  leaves  and  juniper 
bushes.  They  halted  under  a  grove  of  ver- 
dant oaks.  Behind  them  was  the  woodland 
solitude  while  beneath  them  the  Wisla  gleamed 
in  the  sunlight  and  murmured  with  its  blue 
waves  breaking  against  the  shore. 

After  the  preliminary  drinks  and  sandwiches 
all  became  lively. 

"Well,  now  let  us  drink  the  health  of  the 
initiators  of  the  outing!"  cried  Glogowski, 
filling  the  glasses. 

1 '  Let  us  rather  drink  to  the  success  of  your 
new  play,"  cried  several  voices. 

"No,  that  will  not  help  it  any  ...  it  will 
turn  out  a  fiasco  anyway  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  Topolski  will  now  reveal  to  us  his 
secret  plan,"  said  Kotlicki  who  was  calmly 
stretched  out  on  his  plaid  beside  Janina. 

"Let  that  rest!    After  we  have  had  plenty 


240  The  Comedienne 

to  eat  and  still  more  to  drink  will  be  time 
enough.  Perhaps  the  ladies  will  untie  those 
packages,"  cried  Wawrzecki. 

Napkins  were  spread  out  on  the  grass  and  a 
variety  of  dainties  was  brought  forward  and 
set  upon  them  amid  laughter. 

"That's  nice,  but  where  is  the  tea?" 
exclaimed  Janina. 

Kotlicki  jumped  up. 

'  *  The  tea  is  here  and  also  the  samovar,  only 
you,  sir,  will  have  to  go  for  some  water.  We 
shall  go  together  for  it  to  the  Wisla!"  cried 
Majkowska,  shaking  the  charcoal  out  of  a 
pitcher. 

Kotlicki  frowned  a  bit,  but  went  along  with 
her.  In  a  few  minutes  the  samovar  was  started, 
Glogowski  proving  himself  a  real  master. 

"That  is  my  specialty!"  he  shouted  blow- 
ing at  the  fire  like  a  pair  of  bellows.  "And  I 
must  tell  you  ladies  that  very  often,  more  often 
than  I  like,  I  lack  coal.  It  is  then  that  my 
inventive  genius  comes  to  the  fore :  I  stoke  the 
fire  with  papers  or,  if  that  is  also  missing,  I 
pluck  a  board  from  the  floor  and,  willy  nilly, 
the  tea  is  produced." 

"You  must  lead  a  very  diversified  life!" 
remarked  Topolski  with  a  laugh. 


The  Comedienne  241 

"A  trifle!  Just  a  trifle  .  .  .  but  I  won't 
say  that  I  relish  it." 

"I  proclaim  to  all  in  general  and  to  everyone 
in  particular  that  the  tea  is  beginning  to  boil! 
.  .  .  Now,  ladies,  assume  the  rdles  of  Hebes !" 
called  Glogowski. 

Janina  poured  out  the  tea  for  all  of  them 
before  sitting  down  near  Mimi. 

11 1  am  organizing  a  dramatic  society," 
began  Topolski. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  only  way  to  do  it:  you 
engage  a  few  score  of  the  theatrical  tribe  by 
promising  them  high  salaries  and  give  them 
small  advances ;  you  look  for  a  lady  treasurer 
who  is  wise  enough  to  have  a  bond  and  naive 
enough  to  deposit  it;  with  it  you  buy  the 
necessary  accessories,  have  them  sent  on 
account  and  you  are  ready  either  to  begin, 
or  to  break  up.  And  in  two  months  you  can 
repeat  the  same  prescription  until  you  get 
results,"  jested  Wawrzecki. 

"Wawrzecki,  quit  your  confounded  non- 
sense!" cried  the  irritated  Topolski,  drinking 
one  glass  of  brandy  after  another.  "That 
kind  of  company  any  idiot  can  organize,  any 
Cabinski.  I  don't  want  a  band  of  players  who 
will  scatter  to  the  four  winds  as  soon  as  some 

16 


242  The  Comedienne 

one  lures  them  with  the  promise  of  a  big 
advance,  but  a  strong  organization  with  a 
well-defined  plan,  an  organization  as  solid  as 
a  stonewall!" 

"You  often  broke  up  companies  yourself 
and  yet  you  think  you  can  manage 
actors?  .  .  ."  persisted  Wawrzecki. 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Listen  all!  This  is  how 
I  would  go  about  it:  condition  one — about 
five  thousand  rubles  to  begin  with;  I  fish  out 
of  all  the  companies  their  best  forces,  thirty 
persons  at  most;  I  pay  them  moderately  but 
honestly;  I  assure  dividends  ..." 

"Come  now,  you  had  better  give  up  dream- 
ing about  dividends!"  growled  Kotlicki. 

"There  will  be  a  dividend!  there  must 
be!"  cried  Topolski  with  growing  enthusiasm. 
"I  select  my  plays:  a  series  of  typical  and 
classical  things;  these  will  be  the  walls  and 
foundations  of  my  edifice ;  furthermore,  all  the 
more  important  novelties  and  all  the  folk- 
plays,  but  away  with  operetta,  away  with 
clownishness,  away  with  the  circus,  away  with 
everything  that  is  not  true  art!  I  want  to 
have  a  theater  and  not  a  puppet  show !  artists 
are  not  clowns!"  he  cried  in  an  ever  louder 
voice. 


The  Comedienne  243 

Topolski  began  to  cough  so  violently  that  all 
the  veins  in  his  neck  swelled  like  whipcords. 
He  coughed  for  a  long  time,  then  took  a  drink 
of  brandy  and  began  talking  again,  but  in  a 
quieter  and  slower  voice,  without  looking  at 
anyone,  or  seeing  anything  beyond  this  dream 
of  his  whole  life,  which  he  related  in  short 
and  tangled  sentences. 

Kotlicki,  who  was  not  stirred  even  for  a 
moment  by  that  speech  full  of  inspiration  as 
well  as  illogicality,  remarked:  "You  are  a  little 
late.  Antoine  in  Paris  has  long  ago  put  into 
practice  what  you  propose;  those  are  his 
ideas  .  .  ." 

"No,  those  are  my  ideas,  my  dreams;  for 
twenty  years  already  I  am  carrying  them 
within  me!"  cried  Topolski,  growing  sud- 
denly livid  as  though  struck  by  lightning,  and 
gazing  in  a  dazed  way  at  Kotlicki. 

"What  of  that,  when  others  have  already 
partially  realized  those  dreams  and  given 
them  their  name  ..." 

"Thieves!  they  have  stolen  my  idea!  they 
have  stolen  my  idea!"  shouted  Topolski  and 
fell  over  half -senseless  on  the  grass,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  sobbing  convulsively 
and  stammering  in  a  drunken  voice:  "They 


244  The  Comedienne 

have  stolen  my  idea!  .  .  .  Help!  they  have 
stolen  my  idea!"  And  he  continued  to  roll 
about  on  the  grass,  sobbing  like  a  grieved 
child. 

"Not  because  of  the  fact  that  that  idea  is 
already  known  do  I  see  the  impossibility  of 
realizing  such  a  project,"  began  Glogowski 
calmly,  "but  because  our  public  has  not  yet 
reached  the  point  where  it  is  ready  for  such 
a  theater  and  does  not  feel  the  need  of  such  a 
stage.  In  the  meanwhile,  give  them  the  farce 
full  of  acrobatic  stunts  and  leg-shows,  a  half- 
naked  ballet,  cancan  howling,  a  little,  cheap 
kitchen  sentimentality,  a  heap  of  empty 
phrases  on  the  subject  of  virtue,  morality,  the 
family,  duty,  love,  and  ..." 

"Count  up  to  twenty  ..."  laughed 
Kotlicki. 

1 '  Just  as  is  the  public,  so  are  its  theaters ;  one 
is  worth  as  much  as  the  other!"  remarked 
Majkowska. 

"He  who  wants  to  rule  the  multitude  and 
rule  over  it,  must  flatter  it  and  do  that  which 
the  multitude  wants;  he  must  give  it  that 
which  it  needs;  he  must  first  be  its  slave  so 
that  he  may  later  become  its  master,"  said 
Kotlicki  slowly  and  with  unction. 


The  Comedienne  245 

"I  will  say:  no!  I  neither  want  to  cringe 
to  the  mob,  nor  be  its  master;  I  prefer  to  go 
my  own  way  alone  .  .  . "  answered  Glogowski 
emphatically. 

"A  splendid  standpoint!  From  it  you  can 
laugh  at  everyone  to  your  heart's  content." 

11  Miss  Janina,  please  let  me  have  some  tea!" 
cried  the  already  irritated  Glogowski,  spring- 
ing up  violently,  throwing  his  hat  at  a  tree 
and  feverishly  rumpling  his  sparse  hair. 

"You  are  ever  a  fiery  radical  of  native 
breed,"  said  Kotlicki  with  a  good-natured 
irony. 

"And  you  are  a  poor  fish,  a  seal,  a 
whale  .  .  ." 

' '  Count  up  to  twenty ! ' ' 

" Those  are  fine  arguments,  indeed!  .  .  . 
Here  is  a  much  better  one,"  cried  Wawrzecki, 
handing  Glogowski  his  cane. 

Glogowski  calmed  himself,  gazed  around  a 
moment  and  began  drinking  his  tea. 

Majkowska  was  listening  silently,  while 
Mimi,  stretched  out  on  Wawrzecki's  over- 
coat, was  fast  asleep. 

Janina  was  serving  tea  to  all  and  did  not 
lose  a  word  of  that  conversation.  She  had 
already  forgotten  about  Grzesikiewicz,  about 


246  The  Comedienne 

her  father,  and  about  her  talk  with  Kotlicki, 
and  was  entirely  engrossed  by  the  questions 
that  were  now  being  discussed,  while  Topol- 
ski's  dreams  fascinated  her  by  their  fantasies. 
Such  general  discussions  on  art  and  artistic 
subjects  absorbed  her  entirely. 

"What  about  your  dramatic  society?"  she 
asked  Topolski  who  was  just  raising  his  head. 

"It  will  be  ...  it  must  be  formed!"  an- 
swered Topolski. 

"I  warrant  you  it  will  be,"  interposed 
Kotlicki,  "not  the  kind  that  Topolski  desires 
but  that  which  will  be  the  best  within  the 
bounds  of  possibility.  It  will  even  be  possible 
to  introduce  certain  improvements  by  way  of 
variety  and  attraction,  but  we  shall  leave  the 
reformation  of  the  theater  to  someone  else;  for 
that  you  would  need  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  rubles  and  you  would  have  to  start  it  in 
Paris." 

"The  reformation  of  the  theater  will  not 
originate  with  the  managers,  and  as  for 
dramatic  creativity,  what  is  it  really?  .  .  . 
The  seeking  of  something  in  the  dark,  a  dog- 
like  scenting  about,  an  aimless  straying,  or 
the  antics  of  a  flea.  A  genius  must  arrive  to 
revolutionize  the  modern  theater;  I  already 


The  Comedienne  247 

have  a  feeling  that  one  is  coming  .  .  ." 
asserted  Glogowski. 

"How  is  that?  .  .  .  Aren't  the  existing 
masterpieces  of  the  drama  sufficient  for  creat- 
ing an  ideal  theater?"  queried  Janina. 

"No  .  .  .  those  masterpieces  belong  to  the 
past;  we  need  other  works.  For  us  those 
masterpieces  are  a  very  important  archeo- 
logy," answered  Glogowski. 

"So  in  your  estimation  Shakespeare  is 
antiquated?" 

"  Sh !  let  us  not  speak  of  him ;  he  is  the  whole 
universe;  we  can  merely  contemplate  him,  but 
never  understand  him  .  .  ." 

"And  Schiller?" 

"A  Utopian  and  classic:  an  echo  of  the 
Encyclopedists  and  the  French  Revolution. 
He  represents  nobility,  order,  German  doc- 
trinarianism  and  pathetic  and  wearisome 
declamation." 

"And  Goethe?"  ventured  Janina,  who  had 
developed  a  great  liking  for  Glogowski 's  para- 
doxical definitions. 

"That  means  only  Faust,  but  Faust  is  so 
complicated  a  machine  that  since  the  death  of 
the  inventor  no  one  knows  how  to  wind  it  or 
start  it  going.  The  commentators  push  its 


248  The  Comedienne 

wheels,  take  it  apart,  clean  it,  and  dust  it, 
but  the  machine  will  not  go  and  already  is 
beginning  to  rust  a  little.  .  .  .  Moreover, 
it  is  a  furious  aristocracy.  That  Mr.  Faust  is 
first  of  all  not  the  ideal  type  of  man,  but  an 
experimenter;  he  is  nothing  but  the  brain  of 
one  of  those  learned  rabbis  who  spend  their 
whole  lives  on  pondering  whether  it  is  proper 
to  enter  the  synagogue  with  the  right  or  the 
left  foot  first;  he  is  a  vivisector,  who,  after 
breaking  the  heart  of  Margaret  in  the  process 
of  his  experimentation,  and  fearing  the  threat 
of  imprisonment,  and  being  unable  by  virtue  of 
his  shortsightedness  to  see  anything  beyond 
his  study  and  his  retorts,  makes  a  sport  of 
complaining  and  laments  that  life  is  base  and 
knowledge  is  worthless.  In  truth,  it  requires 
a  great  deal  of  genuinely  German  arrogance 
to  maintain  when  you  have  a  catarrh  that 
everybody  else  has  it  or  ought  to  have  it." 

"I  prefer  such  merry  works  to  your  wise 
plays,"  whispered  Kotlicki. 

"Oh,  and  what  of  Shelley  and  Byron?" 
begged  Janina,  whose  interest  was  fully 
aroused. 

"I  prefer  foolishness  even  when  it  presumes 
to  speak  rather  than  when  it  seeks  to  create 


The  Comedienne  249 

something/'  Glogowski  hastily  flung  back  at 
Kotlicki. 

"Aha,  Byron!  .  .  .Byron  is  a  steam  engine 
producing  a  rebellious  energy ;  a  lord  who  was 
dissatisfied  in  England  and  dissatisfied  in 
Venice  with  Suiciolla,  for  although  he  had  a 
warm  climate  and  money  he  was  bored.  He 
is  a  rebel-individualist,  a  strong,  passionate 
monster;  a  lord  who  is  always  seething  with 
fury  and  using  all  the  forces  of  his  wonderful 
talent  to  spite  his  enemies.  He  slapped  Eng- 
land's face  with  masterpieces.  He  is  a  mighty 
protest  ant  out  of  boredom  and  in  his  own 
personal  interest. " 

"And  Shelley?" 

"Shelley  again,  is  a  divine  lingo  for  the 
public  of  Saturn;  he  is  the  poet  of  the  elements 
and  not  for  us  mortals." 

Glogowski  became  silent  and  went  to  pour 
himself  some  tea. 

"We  are  still  listening;  at  least,  I  am  wait- 
ing with  impatience  for  you  to  continue 
your  very  interesting  exposition,"  exclaimed 
Janina. 

"Very  well,  but  I  am  going  to  skip  over  a 
great  many  immortals  so  as  to  finish  sooner." 

"You  can  continue  on  the  condition  that 


250  The  Comedienne 

you'll  do  so  without  tinkling  the  bells  and 
beating  the  tambourine." 

' '  Kotlicki,  keep  quiet !  You  are  a  miserable 
philistine,  a  typical  representative  of  your 
base  species  and  you  are  denied  a  voice  when 
human  beings  are  speaking!" 

"  Gentlemen,  please  quit  your  arguing,  for 
I  can't  sleep,"  pitifully  pleaded  Mimi. 

"Yes,  yes,  it  isn't  at  all  amusing!"  added 
Majkowska  with  a  mighty  yawn. 

Wawrzecki  began  again  to  fill  the  glasses. 
Glogowski  moved  close  to  Janina  and  began 
enthusiastically  to  expound  to  her  his  theory. 

' '  Ibsen  makes  a  strange  impression  on  me ; 
he  foreshadows  someone  mightier  than  himself 
who  is  yet  to  come ;  he  is  like  the  light  of  dawn 
before  the  rising  sun.  And  as  regards  the 
newest,  over-praised  and  over-advertised  Ger- 
mans: Suderman  and  Company  they  are 
merely  a  loud  prating  about  small  things; 
much  ado  about  nothing.  They  wish  to  con- 
vince the  world  for  instance  that  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  wear  suspenders  with  your  trousers, 
because  you  can  sometimes  wear  them  without 
suspenders." 

"So  we  have  finally  got  to  the  point  where 
there  are  no  more  left  to  dispose  of,"  inter- 


The  Comedienne  251 

posed  Kotlicki.  "One  got  a  whack  over  the 
head,  another  a  jab  in  the  ribs,  a  third  a  very 
polite  kick  and  so  forth  ..." 

"No,  my  dear  sir,  /  still  remain!"  rejoined 
Glogowski,  with  a  comical  bow. 

"We  demolished  vast  edifices  for  the  sake 
of  a  soap  bubble." 

"Perhaps,  but  since  even  in  soap  bubbles 
the  sun  is  reflected  ..." 

"Therefore,  let  us  have  another  drink  of 
brandy!"  exclaimed  Topolski,  who  had  been 
silent  up  till  now. 

"Throw  out  all  that  argumentation  to  the 
dogs!  .  .  .  Let  us  drink  and  quit  thinking!" 
chimed  in  Wawrzecki. 

' '  That  last  statement  is  an  epitome  of  your- 
self, Wawrzecki!"  remarked  Glogowski. 

"Let  us  drink  and  love  one  another!" 
proposed  Kotlicki,  rousing  himself  and  tink- 
ling his  glass  against  the  bottle. 

"To  that  I  will  agree,  as  I  am  Glogowski,  I 
will  agree,  for  love  alone  is  the  soul  of  the 
world!" 

"Wait  a  minute,  I  will  sing  you  something 
about  love,"  cried  Wawrzecki,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  drone  an  amorous  ditty. 

"Bravo  Wawrzecki!"  cried  the  entire  com- 


252  The  Comedienne 

pany  and  with  that  they  all  abandoned  them- 
selves to  pure  merriment,  ceased  arguing  and 
babbled  any  nonsense  that  came  to  their  lips. 

"Most  esteemed  ladies  and  gentlemen!  the 
sky  is  beginning  to  cloud  and  on  earth  the 
bottles  are  all  empty.  Let  us  beat  a  retreat !" 
finally  suggested  Wawrzecki. 

"But  how?"  chorused  a  few  voices. 

"We  will  go  on  foot,  for  it  is  not  more  than 
a  mile  to  Warsaw." 

"We'll  hire  some  husky  fellow  to  carry  the 
baskets  for  us.  I'll  go  and  see  if  I  can  find 
someone,"  said  Wawrzecki,  and  he  went  off  in 
the  direction  of  a  monastery. 

Before  he  returned  all  were  ready  for  the 
homeward  journey.  The  general  mood  of 
gayety  had  even  risen,  for  Mimi  was  dancing 
a  waltz  with  Glogowski  on  the  greensward. 
Topolski  was  so  drunk  that  he  continually 
kept  talking  to  himself  and  quarreling  with 
Majkowska.  Kotlicki  smiled  and  kept  close 
to  Janina  who  had  become  very  sportive  and 
merry.  She  smiled  at  him  and  conversed 
with  him,  hardly  remembering  his  recent 
proposal.  He  was  sure  that  the  impression 
of  it  had  merely  glided  over  her  soul  and  sunk 
away  in  forgetfulness. 


The  Comedienne  253 

They  walked  in  disordered  groups  as  is  usual 
after  an  outing.  Janina  was  weaving  a 
wreath  of  oak  leaves,  while  Kotlicki  was  helping 
her  and  amusing  her  with  piquant  remarks. 
She  listened  to  him,  but  when  they  entered 
into  a  bigger  and  real  wood  where  the  ground 
was  covered  with  dense  underbrush,  she  sud- 
denly became  grave,  gazed  at  the  trees  with 
such  great  joy,  touched  their  trunks  and 
branches  with  such  tenderness,  her  lips  and 
eyes  glowed  with  such  rapture,  that  Kotlicki 
asked  her,  pointing  to  the  trees:  "No  doubt 
they  must  be  good  friends  of  yours?  " 

"Yes  indeed,  good  and  sincere  friends  and 
not  comedians! "  she  replied  with  a  light  irony 
in  her  voice. 

"You  have  a  very  vengeful  memory.  You 
neither  believe,  nor  forgive.  I  desire  only  one 
thing:  to  be  able  to  convince  you  ..." 

"Then  marry  me!"  she  exclaimed  quickly, 
turning  towards  him. 

"I  beg  for  your  hand! "  he  murmured  in  the 
same  tone. 

They  glanced  straight  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  both  suddenly  became  gloomy. 
Janina  knitted  her  brows  and  began  uncon- 
sciously to  tear  her  unfinished  wreath  with  her 


254  The  Comedienne 

teeth,  while  Kotlicki  bowed  his  head  and 
became  silent. 

"Come,  let  us  hurry,  we  shall  be  late  for 
the  performance!"  called  someone,  and  they 
hastened  to  catch  up  with  the  rest  of  the 
company. 

"So  to-morrow  there  is  to  be  a  read  re- 
hearsal of  my  play?"  Glogowski  was  asking 
Topolski. 

"To  be  exact,  it  will  be  only  a  reading  of 
the  play  itself,  for  Dobek  has  not  yet  finished 
writing  out  the  roles,"  answered  Topolski. 

"Great  Scott!  and  when  do  you  expect  to 
present  it?" 

"Don't  fear,  the  Philistines  will  hiss  and 
hoot  you  soon  enough,  without  your  hurry- 
ing!" Kotlicki  twitted  him. 

"We  shall  present  it  in  a  week  from  next 
Tuesday  ...  at  least  I  would  have  it  so," 
replied  Topolski. 

"Or,  strictly  speaking,  there  will  remain  for 
rehearsals  and  for  the  learning  of  the  roles  only 
four  days.  No  one  will  know  his  part,  no 
one  will  be  able  to  master  it  even  passably  in 
so  short  a  time.  That's  nothing  short  of  mur- 
der, cold-blooded  murder!"  cried  Glogowski. 

"You'll  treat  Dobek  to  a  few  whiskeys  and 


The  Comedienne  255 

he  will  safely  pull  the  play  through  for  you," 
suggested  Wawrzecki. 

"Yes,  he  will  shout  for  everybody.  ...  As 
the  matter  stands,  it  is  best  to  announce  that 
there  will  take  place  merely  a  reading  of  the 
play." 

"You  needn't  worry  about  me,  I'll  learn  my 
role,"  Majkowska  assured  him. 

"  And  I  also,"  added  Janina. 

"I  know  the  ladies  always  know  their  parts 
but  the  men  .  .  ." 

"The  men  will  play  their  parts  well  without 
having  to  learn  them,"  remarked  Wawrzecki. 
"Don't  you  know  that  Glas  never  studies  his 
r61es!  A  few  rehearsals  familiarize  him  with 
the  situations  of  the  play  and  the  prompter 
does  the  rest." 

"That's  why  he  plays  so  splendidly!" 
sneered  Glogowski. 

"What  do  you  want?  He's  a  good  actor 
and  not  at  all  a  bad  comedian." 

"Yes,  because  he  always  knows  how  to 
improvise  some  nonsense  with  which  to  cover 
up  his  bungling." 

"Please  give  me  an  entirely  serious  answer. 
Were  those  last  words  of  yours  only  a  joke  or 
were  they  an  expression  of  your  wishes  and  a 


256  The  Comedienne 

condition?"  Kotlicki  again  whispered  to  Ja- 
nina  as  a  certain  idea  entered  into  his  head. 

"Every  variety  is  good,  providing  it  is  not 
wearisome.  Have  you  heard  that  before?" 
answered  Janina  impatiently. 

"Thank  you!  I  will  remember  it.  .  .  . 
But  do  you  know  this:  patience  is  the  first 
condition  of  success." 

Kotlicki  glanced  at  her  quizzically,  bowed 
to  her  with  his  head,  and  retired  among  the 
rest  of  the  company.  He  possessed  a  brazen 
self-confidence  and  decided,  at  all  events,  to 
wait. 

Kotlicki  was  not  one  of  those  whom  a 
woman  can  drive  away  from  herself  with  scorn 
or  even  with  insults.  He  accepted  everything 
and  carefully  stored  it  away  in  his  memory  for 
a  future  reckoning.  He  was  a  man  who  had 
a  contempt  for  women,  who  told  people  what 
he  thought  to  their  very  faces,  and  who 
always  craved  women  and  love.  He  ignored 
the  fact  that  he  was  ugly,  for  he  knew  he  was 
rich  enough  to  buy  any  woman  that  he  might 
desire.  He  belonged  to  that  category  of  men 
— which  is  ready  for  anything. 

He  now  walked  along  smiling  at  some 
thought  that  was  in  his  mind,  and  striking 


The  Comedienne  257 

with  his  cane  the  weeds  that  were  in  his 
path. 

It  grew  dark  and  the  rain  began  to  fall  in 
large  drops. 

"We  will  get  drenched  like  chickens  I" 
laughed  Mimi,  opening  her  parasol. 

"Miss  Janina,  my  umbrella  is  at  your 
service,"  called  Glogowski. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  but  as  far  as  I 
am  able,  I  do  not  use  any  protection  against 
the  rain;  I  just  dote  on  getting  wet  in  the 


rain." 


"You  have  the  instincts  of  .  .  ."he  broke 
off  suddenly  and  pressed  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
with  a  comical  gesture. 

"Finish  what  you  began  to  say  .  .  .  please 
do  .  .  ." 

"You  have  the  instincts  of  fish  and  geese. 
...  I  am  curious  to  know  how  they  have 
developed  in  you." 

Janina  smiled,  for  she  remembered  her  old 
autumn  and  winter  tramps  through  the  woods 
in  the  greatest  storms  and  rainfalls,  and  she 
answered  merrily:  "I  like  such  things.  I  am 
used  from  my  childhood  to  endure  rains  and 
rough  weather  ...  I  am  simply  wild  about 

storms." 
17 


258  The  Comedienne 

"My,  what  fiery  blood!  It  must  be  some- 
thing atavistic." 

"It's  merely  a  habit  or  an  inner  need  which 
has  grown  to  the  proportions  of  a  passion.*' 

Glogowski  offered  his  arm  to  Janina;  she 
accepted  and  began  to  relate  to  him  in  an  easy, 
friendly  tone  the  various  adventures  she  had 
experienced  on  her  excursions  in  the  country. 
She  felt  as  unrestrained  in  his  company  as 
though  she  had  known  him  from  childhood. 
At  moments  she  would  even  forget  that  this 
was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  met 
him.  She  was  won  over  to  him  by  his  bright 
and  happy  face  and  by  the  somewhat  mild 
sincerity  of  his  character;  she  felt  in  him  a 
brotherly  and  honest  soul. 

Glogowski  listened  to  her,  answered  her 
questions,  and  observed  her  with  curiosity. 
Finally,  choosing  an  appropriate  moment,  he 
said  frankly:  "May  the  deuce  take  me,  but 
you  are  an  interesting  woman,  a  very  interest- 
ing one!  I  will  tell  you  something;  just  now 
a  certain  thought  struck  me  and  I  offer  it  to 
you  hot  from  the  griddle,  only  don't  think  it 
strange.  I  detest  conventionality,  social  hypo- 
crisy, the  affectation  of  actresses,  etc.,  count 
up  to  twenty!  .  .  .  and  that  is  just  what  I  fail, 


The  Comedienne  259 

as  yet,  to  see  in  you.  Oho!  I  immediately 
noticed  that  you  were  free  from  all  that. 
Frankly,  I  like  you  as  a  certain  type  that  one 
meets  very  rarely.  It  is  interesting,  interest- 
ing!" he  repeated,  almost  to  himself.  "We 
might  become  friends!"  he  cried  delightedly, 
speaking  his  thoughts  aloud,  "For,  although 
women  always  disappoint  me,  because  sooner 
or  later  the  female  of  the  species  crops  out  in 
every  one  of  them,  still,  a  new  experiment 
might  be  worth  something.  .  .  ." 

" Frankness  in  return  for  frankness,"  said 
Janina,  laughing  at  the  lightning-like  swift- 
ness with  which  he  formed  determinations. 
"You  also  are  an  interesting  specimen." 

"Well,  then,  we  agree!  Let  us  shake  and 
be  good  friends!"  he  exclaimed,  extending  his 
hand. 

"But  I  haven't  yet  finished  what  I  wanted 
to  say:  I  must  tell  you  that  I  do  without 
confidants  and  friends  entirely.  That  smacks 
of  sentimentality  and  is  not  very  safe." 

"Bosh!  Friendship  is  worth  more  than 
love.  I  see  it's  beginning  to  pour  in  earnest. 
It  is  the  dogs  crying  over  rejected  friendship. 
I  shall  have  the  opportunity  of  meeting  you 
more  often,  shall  I  not?  For  you  have  within 


260  The  Comedienne 

you  something  .  .  .  something  like  a  piece  of 
a  certain  kind  of  soul  that  one  comes  across 
very  rarely." 

"I  am  at  the  theater  every  day  for  re- 
hearsals and  almost  every  day  at  the  per- 
formances." 

"Oh  the  deuce  take  it,  that  won't  do  at  all! 
If  I  attended  on  you  for  only  once  a  week,  it 
would  give  rise  to  so  much  gossip,  twaddle,  sur- 
mises," 

"Oh  I  don't  care  what  people  say  about 
me!"  Janina  laughed  with  an  easy  air. 

"Ho!  ho!  I  see  you  are  of  the  fighting 
variety  ...  a  regular  gamecock!  I  like  a 
person  who  treats  with  scant  ceremony  that 
old  rag  called  public  opinion." 

1 '  I  think  that  as  long  as  I  have  nothing  to 
reproach  myself  with,  I  can  listen  calmly  to 
what  they  say  about  me." 

"Pride,  a  capital  pride!" 

"Why  don't  you  bring  out  your  play  in  the 
Warsaw  Theater?" 

"Because  they  did  not  want  to  produce  it. 
That,  you  see,  is  a  very  elegant  and  highly 
perfumed  establishment  and  only  for  a  very 
delicate  and  subtly  feeling  public,  while  my 
play  does  not  smell  a  bit  of  the  salon ;  at  the 


The  Comedienne  261 

most,  it  smells  of  the  fields,  a  little  of  the  woods 
and  a  trifle  of  the  peasant's  hut.  There  they 
want,  not  truth,  but  flirtation,  conventionality 
bluffing,  etc.,  count  up  to  twenty.  Moreover, 
I  had  no  backing,  and  they  already  have  their 
patented  play  manufacturers." 

"I  thought  it  was  only  necessary  to  write 
something  good  and  they  would  immediately 
produce  it 

"Great  Scott!  No!  .  .  .  quite  the  reverse 
is  true.  Just  look  how  much  I  must  bear 
before  even  such  as  Cabinski  presents  my 
play!  .  .  .  Now  raise  that  to  the  fourth 
power  and  only  then  will  you  have  some 
conception  of  the  joys  of  a  beginning  comedy 
writer,  who,  in  addition,  does  not  know  how 
to  secure  patronage  for  his  plays." 

They  became  silent.  The  rain  fell  inces- 
santly and  was  already  forming  big  puddles 
of  water  along  the  road.  Glogowski  gazed 
gloomily  at  the  city  whose  towers  appeared 
outlined  upon  the  misty  horizon. 

' '  A  base  city ! "  he  grumbled  angrily.  ' '  For 
three  years  I  have  vainly  been  trying  to  con- 
quer it.  I  am  struggling  and  killing  myself, 
and  yet,  not  even  a  dog  knows  me." 

"If  you  keep  on  telling  them  that  they  are 


262  The  Comedienne 

base  knaves  and  fools  you  will  never  conquer 
them." 

"I  will.  They  will  not  love  me,  to  be  sure, 
but  they  will  have  to  reckon  with  me,  they 
must !  However,  such  citadels  are  most  easily 
stormed  by  actors,  singers,  and  dancers.  They 
make  a  clean  sweep  of  everything  with  only 
one  appearance." 

"But  their  triumph  is  only  for  a  day. 
After  they  have  left  the  stage  all  trace  of  them 
is  lost  like  that  of  a  stone  cast  into  the  water ! ' ' 
said  Janina  with  a  certain  bitterness,  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  ever  nearer  appearing,  crowded 
walls  of  Warsaw.  Only  at  that  moment  did 
she  realize  that  the  fame  of  which  she  dreamed 
was  merely  the  fame  of  a  day. 

' '  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  an  appetite 
for  the  same  thing  that  I  have,"  remarked 
Glogowski. 

"I  have!"  she  answered  with  emphasis  and 
her  voice  resounded  with  the  explosive  force  of 
something  that  had  been  long  pent  up. 

"I  have!"  she  repeated,  but  this  time  in  a 
much  quieter  tone  and  without  enthusiasm. 
The  light  died  away  in  Janina' s  eyes  and  they 
strayed  aimlessly  over  those  heights  of  the 
city  in  the  distance,  without  understanding 


The  Comedienne  263 

anything,  for  she  was  perturbed  by  the 
thought  of  that  ephemeral  fame,  for  she 
remembered  the  faded  wreaths  of  Cabinska 
and  the  bygone  fame  of  Stanislawski,  for  she 
was  thinking  with  growing  bitterness  of  those 
thousands  of  famous  actors  who  were  dead 
and  whose  names  even  were  forgotten.  Jan- 
ina  felt  a  distressing  conflict  of  feelings  in  her 
breast.  She  leaned  more  heavily  on  Glogow- 
ski's  arm  and  walked  on  without  saying 
another  word. 

At  Zakroczymska  Street  they  took  a  hack; 
Kotlicki  jumped  in  and  went  along  with  them, 
forming  a  party  of  three.  Janina  eyed  him 
angrily,  but  he  pretended  he  did  not  notice  it 
and  gazed  at  her  with  his  everlasting  smile. 
Glogowski  and  Kotlicki  accompanied  her  to 
her  home.  She  had  only  enough  time  left  to 
rush  into  the  house,  change  her  dress,  take  the 
things  she  needed  and  immediately  start  off 
again  for  the  theater. 

Because  of  the  rain  a  few  of  the  other 
chorus  girls  were  also  late.  Cabinski,  expect- 
ing an  empty  house  on  account  of  the  weather, 
was  irritated  and  rushed  up  and  down  the 
stage,  shouting  to  all  those  who  were  enter- 
ing: "I  see  you  girls  are  getting  lazy.  It  is 


264  The  Comedienne 


already  past  eight  o'clock  and  not  one  of  you 
is  yet  dressed." 

"We  have  been  attending  vespers  at  the 
Church  of  St.  Charles  of  Borromeus,"  ex- 
plained Zielinska. 

"Don't  try  to  fool  me  with  vespers!  The 
deuce  with  vespers!  Tend  to  that  which 
gives  you  your  bread!" 

"You  provide  us  so  generously  with  it,  Mr. 
Director!"  angrily  retorted  Louise. 

'  *  What,  I  don't  pay  you?  What  else  do  you 
live  on?" 

"What  do  we  live  on?  ...  Certainly 
not  your  absurd  and  merely  promised  sal- 
aries!" 

"Oh,  and  you  are  also  late?"  he  cried  to 
Janina  who  was  just  entering. 

"I  appear  only  in  the  third  act,  so  I  still 
have  plenty  of  time." 

"Wicek!  go  run  and  get  Miss  Rosinska. 
Where  is  Sophie?  Hurry  up  and  begin !  May 
the  devil  take  you  all!"  shouted  Cabinski 
growing  exasperated. 

He  peered  through  the  slit  in  the  curtain. 

"The  theater  is  already  filled,  by  God,  and 
not  a  soul  is,  as  yet,  in  the  dressing-rooms! 
Afterwards  they  complain  that  I  don't  pay 


The  Comedienne  265 

them!  Gentlemen!  for  God's  sake,  hurry  and 
get  dressed  and  begin!" 

"  Right  away,  as  soon  as  we  finish  this 
game." 

A  few  undressed  actors  with  their  make-up 
half-completed  were  playing  a  game  of  poker. 
Stanislawski  alone  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  dress- 
ing-room before  his  mirror  and  was  making  up 
his  face.  Already  for  the  third  time  he  was 
rubbing  off  the  paint  with  a  towel  and  mak- 
ing up  anew.  He  gymnasticated  his  mouth, 
contracted  his  brows  in  anger,  puckered  his 
forehead  and  cast  all  sorts  of  glances.  He  was 
rehearsing  a  character  and  with  each  change  of 
his  physiognomy,  he  mumbled  beneath  his 
breath  the  corresponding  parts  of  his  r61e,  only 
now  and  then  tossing  in  the  direction  of  the 
card  players  a  ten-copeck  piece  and  two  words : 
"A  four  .  .  .  ten  coppers!" 

' '  The  public  is  starting  a  rumpus !  It's  time 
to  ring  and  begin!"  pleaded  Cabinski. 

"Don't  disturb  us,  Director.  Let  them 
wait.  ...  A  trump!  .  .  .  Shell  out  the 
coin!" 

"A  jack  .  .  .  you  pay!" 

"A  queen  of  hearts  .  .  .  hand  over  five 
shekles!" 


266  The  Comedienne 

"All's  ready!  Stake  something  on  Desde- 
mona,  Director,"  cried  one  of  the  players, 
shuffling  and  stacking  the  cards. 

"She  will  betray  me!"  hissed  Cabinski. 

"Doesn't  she  betray  you  anyway?" 

"Ring!"  shouted  Cabinski  to  the  stage- 
director,  hearing  a  stamping  of  feet  in  the  hall. 

For  a  few  minutes  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
rustling  of  cards,  falling  with  lightning-like 
rapidity  upon  the  table. 

"Four  aces  .  .  .  you're  done  for !" 

"Shell  out!" 

"Ajack!" 

"A  five  ...  that's  good.  I'll  at  least 
make  something." 

"A  queen  of  hearts." 

"Have  some  consideration  for  the  ladies!" 
persisted  Cabinski. 

1 '  A  queen  of  spades.     Shell  out ! ' ' 

"Enough  of  that!  Hurry  and  dress  your- 
selves! The  audience  is  already  beginning  to 
howl." 

"If  that  amuses  them,  why  interfere?" 

"You'll  change  your  minds  about  it,  if  they 
leave  the  theater  and  demand  their  money 
back!"  cried  Cabinski,  rushing  out  in  utter 
desperation. 


The  Comedienne  267 

The  actors  threw  down  their  cards  and  all 
began  to  dress  themselves  in  feverish  haste 
and  to  complete  their  make-up. 

"What  do  we  play  first?" 

"The  Vow." 

"Stanislawski!" 

' '  You  can  ring,  I  am  coming ! "  called  Stanis- 
lawski,  as  he  slowly  made  his  way  to  the 
stage. 

"Hurry!  or  they'll  wreck  the  theater!" 
cried  Cabinski  in  the  doorway. 

They  were  giving  a  so-called  "dramatic 
bouquet,"  or  "as  you  like  it,"  that  is:  a  comic 
sketch,  a  one-act  operetta,  a  scene  from  a 
drama  and  a  solo  dance.  Almost  the  entire 
company  took  part  in  the  performance. 

Janina  sat  behind  the  scenes  and  watched 
the  stage,  waiting  for  her  turn.  She  felt 
greatly  overwrought  by  the  happenings  of 
that  entire  day.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
became  rapt  in  a  quiet  meditation  of  the 
words  of  Grzesikiewicz,  who  had  again 
recurred  to  her  memory,  but  suddenly,  she 
started  with  a  shudder,  for  behind  his  face  she 
saw  emerging  the  satyr -like  face  of  Kotlicki 
with  its  mocking  smile;  then,  there  passed 
before  her  mind  a  vision  of  Glogowski  with  his 


268  The  Comedienne 

large  head  and  kindly  look.  She  rubbed  her 
eyes  as  though  to  drive  those  visions  away 
from  her,  but  that  smile  of  Kotlicki  would  not 
leave  her  memory. 

"What  a  disgusting  poodle  that  Rosinska 
is!"  whispered  Majkowska,  standing  before 
Janina. 

Janina  roused  herself  and  looked  up  at 
Majkowska  with  a  certain  dissatisfaction. 
What  interest  did  all  that  have  for  her  at  the 
present  moment?  And  she  already  began  to 
feel  vexed  and  impatient  at  that  eternal  bat- 
tle of  all  with  everybody.  She  wasn't  a  bit 
concerned  about  Rosinska,  whose  acting  was, 
in  reality,  impossible,  and  nauseatingly  senti- 
mental. 

"  Cabinski  would  do  well  to  keep  her  off  the 
stage,"  continued  Majkowska  without  heeding 
Janina' s  silence,  but  she  broke  off  quickly,  for 
there  approached  them  just  then  Sophie, 
Rosinska' s  daughter,  who  was  to  dance  a  solo 
pas  with  a  shawl. 

She  stood  beside  Majkowska,  all  dressed 
for  the  dance.  In  that  costume  she  looked 
like  a  girl  of  twelve;  her  figure  was  undeve- 
loped, her  face  was  thin  and  mobile,  while  her 
gray  eyes  and  cynically  contorted,  carmined 


The  Comedienne  269 

lips  wore  the  expression  of  an  experienced 
courtesan.  She  watched  the  acting  of  her 
mother,  hissing  between  her  teeth  with  dis- 
satisfaction. Finally,  she  bent  over  toward 
Majkowska  and  whispered  so  that  Janina 
could  not  hear  her:  "Just  look  how  that  old 
woman  is  playing!" 

"Who?     Your  mother?" 

"Yes.  Just  look  at  the  eyes  she  is  making 
at  that  fellow  in  the  high  hat !  Hopping  about 
like  an  old  turkey  hen,  too!  Gee  whiz,  how 
she  has  dolled  herself  up!  She's  bent  on 
making  herself  look  young  and  doesn't  even 
know  how  to  make  up  her  face  decently.  I 
am  ashamed  of  her.  She  thinks  that  all  are 
such  fools  that  they  will  not  notice  her  arti- 
ficial beauty.  Ha !  ha !  She  can't  fool  me,  for 
one.  When  she  dresses,  she  locks  herself  up 
so  as  not  to  let  me  see  how  she  pads  and  pieces 
herself  together,  ha!  ha!"  she  laughed  with  an 
almost  hostile  expression.  "Those  men  are 
such  simps  that  they  believe  everything  they 
see.  .  .  .  She  buys  everything  for  herself  and  I 
can't  even  beg  money  for  a  parasol  from  her." 

"Sophie,  who  ever  heard  of  speaking  that 
way  about  one's  mother!"  Majkowska 
reproved  her. 


270  The  Comedienne 

"  Oh  slush !  a  mother  isn't  anything  so  great ! 
In  about  four  years  I  can  become  a  mother 
myself,  a  few  times,  if  I  want  to;  but  I'm  not 
so  foolish  as  all  that  ...  no  kids  for  mine, 
not  on  your  life!  I'd  have  to  be  some  fool!' 

"You  are  a  nasty  and  silly  kid!  I'm  going 
to  tell  your  mother  immediately  ..."  indig- 
nantly whispered  Majkowska,  walking  away. 

"She's  a  silly  fool  herself,  even  though  she 
is  an  actress  of  standing."  Sophie  hurled 
after  her,  pouting  her  lips  spitefully. 

"Stop  that!  You're  preventing  me  from 
hearing  what  is  being  said  on  the  stage." 

"You  won't  lose  much,  Miss  Janina!  The 
old  woman  has  a  voice  like  a  cracked  pot," 
continued  Sophie  unabashed. 

Janina  made  an  impatient  motion. 

"And  if  you  only  knew  how  she  lies  to  me! 
At  Lublin  there  came  to  our  house  a  certain 
gentleman  named  Kulasiewicz,  whom  I  called 
'Kulas'  for  he  never  even  brought  me  any 
candy.  She  spanked  me  for  it  and  told  me 
that  he  was  my  father.  .  .  .  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I 
know  what  kind  of  'fathers'  they  are.  .  .  . 
At  Lublin,  there  was  Kulas,  at  Lodz,  Kaminski 
and  now,  she  has  two  of  them.  .  .  .  She  tries 
to  hide  the  fact,  and  thinks  that  I  envy  her. 


The  Comedienne  271 

I'd  have  to  be  some  fool  for  that!  Such 
penniless  jiggers  you  can  pick  up  anywhere 
by  the  bushel  .  .  . " 

"Stop  that,  Sophie,  you  are  a  wicked  girl!" 
whispered  Janina,  boiling  with  indignation  at 
the  cynicism  of  that  actor's  child. 

"What's  wrong  in  what  I  say?  Isn't  it 
true?"  she  answered  with  a  wonderful  accent 
of  true  innocence. 

"You  ask  me  what's  wrong!  Where  will 
you  find  another  child  who  says  such  horrid 
things  about  her  mother?" 

"Well,  why  is  she  such  a  fool?  All  of  the 
other  actresses  have  lovers  who  at  least  have 
money,  while  she  .  .  .  look  at  what  she's 
got!  I  also  would  be  better  off  if  she  were 
wiser.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  when  I  grow  up,  I'll 
not  be  such  a  fool  as  she!  ..." 

Janina  staggered  back,  staring  at  her  in 
amazement,  but  Sophie  did  not  understand 
that  and,  bending  more  closely  over  her, 
whispered  significantly:  "Have  you  already 
got  someone,  Miss  Janina?" 

She  hurried  away  immediately,  for  the  cur- 
tain had  already  descended  and  her  dance  was 
to  begin  right  away  in  the  entr'  acte. 

Janina    shuddered    as    though    something 


272  The  Comedienne 

unclean  had  touched  her.  A  cold  chill  passed 
through  her  and  a  blush  of  shame  and  humili- 
ation covered  her  face. 

"What  filth !"  she  whispered  to  herself; 
Sophie,  unconscious  of  her  was  all  smiling  and 
radiant  on  the  stage. 

Sophie's  long  thin  mouth  like  that  of  a 
greyhound  merely  flashed  now  and  then  in  the 
wild  tempo  of  the  waltz  she  was  performing. 
She  danced  with  such  temperament  and  skill 
that  a  storm  of  applause  greeted  her.  Some- 
one even  threw  her  a  bouquet.  She  picked  it 
up  and,  retreating  from  the  stage,  smiled 
coquettishly  like  a  veteran  actress,  sniffing  in 
with  distended  nostrils  those  signs  of  the  pub- 
lic's satisfaction. 

"Miss  Janina,"  she  cried  behind  the  scenes. 
"  Look,  I  got  a  bouquet !  Now  Cabinski  must 
give  me  a  raise.  They  came  especially  to  see 
me  dance  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  how  they  are 
recalling  me!"  and  she  leaped  out  upon  the 
open  stage  to  bow  to  the  public. 

"Your  stage  prating  isn't  worth  a  fig!"  she 
said  to  the  actresses.  "If  it  weren't  for  the 
dance  the  theater  would  be  empty."  And 
she  pirouetted  on  tiptoe,  laughed  triumphantly 
and  went  off  to  her  dressing-room. 


The  Comedienne  273 

The  company  had  begun  to  play  an  act  of  a 
very  lachrymose  drama  entitled  The  Daughter 
of  Fabricius.  Topolski  appeared  in  the  r61e  of 
Fabricius  and  Majkowska  impersonated  his 
daughter.  They  played  entirely  well  although 
Topolski  was  still  so  drunk  that  he  didn't 
know  where  he  was,  but  he  nevertheless  acted 
so  perfectly  that  no  one  was  aware  of  it.  Only 
Stanislawski  stood  behind  the  scenes  and 
laughed  aloud  at  his  automatic  motions  and 
the  blank  expression  of  his  eyes.  Majkowska 
was  upholding  Topolski  every  now  and  then, 
for  he  would  have  fallen  on  the  stage. 

"Mirowska!  come  here  and  see  how  they 
are  acting!"  called  Stanislawski  to  the  old 
actress  who  was  to-day  apathetically  disposed, 
his  eyes  glowing  with  feverish  animosity. 

"That  is  my  r61e !  I  ought  to  be  playing  it. 
Look  what  he  has  made  of  it,  the  drunken 
beast!"  he  hissed  between  his  tightly  set 
teeth.  And  when,  applause,  that  was  in  spite 
of  everything,  merited,  broke  out,  Stanislaw- 
ski became  pale  with  rage  and  grasped  at  one 
of  the  scenes  to  keep  from  falling  over,  so 
great  an  envy  was  choking  him. 

1  'Cattle!  Cattle!"  he  whispered  hoarsely, 
shaking  his  fist  threateningly  at  the  public. 


18 


274  The  Comedienne 

Then  he  went  to  look  for  the  stage- direct  or 
but  being  unable  to  find  him,  came  back.  He 
continued  to  walk  about  excited  and  angry, 
scarcely  able  to  stand  on  his  feet. 

"My  daughter!  .  .  .  My  beloved  child !  so 
you  do  not  spurn  your  aged  father?  .  .  .  You 
press  to  your  pure  heart  your  criminal  father? 
.  .  .  You  do  not  flee  from  his  tears  and 
kisses?"  came  floating  from  the  stage  Topol- 
ski's  ardent  whisper  and  struck  the  old  actor 
so  forcibly  that  he  stood  still,  thrilled  by  the 
acting,  forgot  entirely  about  his  envy,  repeated 
those  words  in  a  whisper  and  put  into  those 
quiet  accents  of  fatherly  love  so  much  feeling 
and  tears,  so  much  blood  and  inspiration  and 
appeared  at  the  same  time  so  funny  standing 
in  the  dim  light  behind  the  scenes  with  hands 
pathetically  outstretched  into  empty  space, 
with  head  bent  forward  and  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  rope  of  the  curtain,  that  Wicek,  who  saw 
him,  ran  to  the  dressing-room  crying :  "Gentle- 
men, come  and  see  Stanislawski  showing 
something  new  behind  the  scenes." 

They  all  rushed  in  a  crowd  to  view  the  sight 
and,  seeing  him  still  standing  in  the  same 
pathetic  pose,  burst  out  laughing  in  unison. 

"Ha!  ha!  a  South  American  monkey!" 


The  Comedienne  275 

"That  is  an  African  mammoth,  that  has 
lived  for  a  hundred  years,  devoured  human 
beings,  devoured  paper,  devoured  r61es,  de- 
voured fame  until  it  died  from  indigestion," 
cried  Wawrzecki,  imitating  the  voice  and 
speech  of  a  provincial  showman. 

Stanislawski  suddenly  roused  himself, 
glanced  in  back  of  him  and  encountering  the 
derisive  gazes  that  were  centered  on  him, 
trembled,  and  sadly  dropped  his  head  upon  his 
breast. 

Janina  who  had  witnessed  this  entire  scene 
and  who  in  the  moments  of  the  old  actor's 
ecstasy  had  not  even  dared  to  move  a  finger 
for  fear  of  disturbing  him,  could  no  longer 
restrain  herself  when  she  saw  tears  in  his  eyes 
and  that  whole  band  of  cattle  jeering  at  him. 
She  walked  up  to  Stanislawski  and  kissed  his 
hand  with  involuntary  respect. 

"My  child!  my  child!"  he  whispered  feebly 
turning  his  head  to  hide  the  tears  that  were 
streaming  from  his  eyes  ever  more  profusely. 
He  pressed  her  hand  tightly  and  went  out. 

A  storm  of  wild  sorrow,  pain,  and  hatred 
shook  Stanislawski  so  violently  that  he  could 
scarcely  descend  the  stairs.  He  went  out  into 
the  hall,  encompassed  the  stage  and  the  public 


276  The  Comedienne 

with  a  gaze  of  unspeakable  sadness  and  walked 
across  the  veranda  toward  the  street,  but 
turned  about  abruptly  and  remained. 

"He  would  make  a  very  venerable  guard- 
ian!" cried  someone  to  Janina  after  Stanis- 
lawski's  departure. 

"He  might  organize  a  new  company  and 
play  lovers  together  with  her!"  added  another 
voice. 

"Jackals!  Jackals!"  cried  Janina  aloud, 
staring  defiantly  at  them.  And  she  had  a 
great  desire  to  spit  in  the  eyes  of  all  those 
cowards,  so  violent  a  wave  of  hatred  surged 
through  her  and  so  base  and  cruel  did  they  all 
appear  to  her.  She  restrained  herself  how- 
ever, and  resumed  her  seat,  but  for  a  long  time 
could  not  calm  herself. 

When  Janina  went  on  the  stage  with  the 
chorus,  she  was  still  trembling  and  agitated 
and  the  first  person  she  saw  in  the  audience 
was  Grzesikiewicz  who  sat  in  the  front  row 
of  seats.  Their  eyes  met;  he  made  a  motion 
as  though  he  wanted  to  leave,  while  she  stood 
amazed  for  one  brief  instant  in  the  center  of 
the  stage,  but  immediately  collected  herself, 
for  she  also  spied  Kotlicki  sitting  not  far  away 
tod  closely  observing  Grzesikiewicz  and  fur- 


The  Comedienne  277 

ther  on  Niedzielska  who  was  standing  near 
the  stalls  and  smiling  at  her  in  a  friendly 
manner. 

Janina  did  not  look  at  Grzesikiewicz,  but 
she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her  and  that  began  to 
add  to  her  agitation  and  excitement.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  on  short  skirts  and  a 
peculiar  shame  filled  her  at  the  thought  that 
she  was  standing  before  him  in  these  gaudy, 
theatrical  togs.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
what  took  place  within  her.  Never  before 
had  she  felt  like  this.  In  her  stage  appear- 
ances she  usually  gazed  at  the  public  with 
an  expression  of  aloofness  as  on  a  foolish  and 
slavish  throng,  but  to-day  it  seemed  to  her 
as  though  she  were  standing  in  the  front  part 
of  a  huge  cage  like  some  animal  on  exhibition, 
while  that  audience  had  come  to  view  her  and 
amuse  itself  with  her  antics.  For  the  first 
time  she  saw  that  smile  which  was  not  on  any 
particular  face,  but  which,  nevertheless,  hov- 
vered  over  all  faces  and  seemed  to  fill  the 
theater;  it  was  a  smile  of  indulgent  and 
unconscious  irony,  a  smile  of  crushing  supe- 
riority that  is  seen  on  the  faces  of  older  people 
when  they  watch  the  playing  of  children.  She 
felt  it  everywhere.  • 


278  The  Comedienne 

Afterwards  Janina  saw  only  the  eyes  of 
Grzesikiewicz  immovably  fixed  upon  her. 
She  violently  tore  herself  away  from  that 
gaze  and  looked  in  another  direction,  but  saw, 
nevertheless,  how  Grzesikiewicz  got  up  and 
left  the  theater.  To  be  sure,  she  was  not 
waiting  for  him,  nor  did  she  expect  to  see  him 
again,  yet  his  departure  touched  her  painfully. 
She  gazed  as  though  with  a  certain  feeling  of 
disappointment  at  the  empty  seat  which  he 
had  occupied  just  a  moment  ago  and  then  she 
retreated  with  the  chorus  to  the  back  of  the 
stage. 

Glas  stood  before  the  very  box  of  the 
prompter  and  quietly  and  significantly  began 
to  knock  with  his  foot  to  Dobek  for  he  was  to 
sing  some  solo  part  of  which,  as  was  his  usual 
custom,  he  did  not  know  a  single  word.  Halt 
signaled  to  him  with  his  baton  and  Glas  with 
a  comically  attuned  face  began  to  sing  some 
remembered  word  and  strain  his  ears  for  a  cue 
from  Dobek,  but  Dobek  was  silent. 

Halt  rapped  at  his  desk  energetically,  but 
Glas  kept  on  singing  one  and  the  same  thing 
over  and  over  again,  whispering  pleadingly  to 
Dobek  in  the  pauses :  ' '  Prompt !  Prompt ! ' ' 

The  chorus,  scattered  at  the  back  of  the 


The  Comedienne  279 

stage,  began  to  be  confused  by  the  situation, 
while  behind  the  scenes  someone  began  to 
recite  aloud  to  Glas,  the  words  of  the  unfortu- 
nate song,  but  Glas,  all  perspiring  and  red  with 
anger  and  emotion  kept  on  singing,  in  a  circle: 
"You  are  mine,  oh  lovely  Rose!"  without 
hearing  anything,  or  knowing  what  was  going 
on  about  him. 

"Prompt!"  he  whispered  once  more  in 
despair,  for  already  the  orchestra  and  a  part  of 
the  audience  had  noticed  what  was  happening 
and  was  laughing  at  him.  He  kicked  Dobek 
in  the  face  and  suddenly  stood  mute  and 
motionless,  gazing  with  a  blank  expression  at 
the  public,  for  Dobek,  having  received  a  kick 
in  the  teeth,  grabbed  Glas  by  the  leg  and  held 
him  tightly. 

"Do  you  see,  my  boy!  Next  time  don't 
try  to  get  frisky!"  whispered  the  prompter, 
holding  Glas  so  tightly  by  the  leg  that  he 
could  not  move.  "You  are  done  for!  You 
tried  to  fix  Dobek,  now  Dobek  has  fixed  you! 
Now  we  are  even!" 

The  situation  was  saved  by  Halt  and  Kacz- 
kowska  who  began  to  sing  the  following 
number.  Dobek  let  go  Glas's  leg,  retreated 
as  deeply  as  he  could  into  his  box  and  calmly 


280  The  Comedienne 

continued  to  prompt  from  memory,  smiling 
good-naturedly  at  Cabinski,  who  was  shaking 
his  fist  threateningly  at  him  from  behind  the 
scenes. 

Janina  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  making  out 
what  was  happening  at  the  front  of  the  stage, 
for  she  saw  Grzesikiewicz  returning  with  a 
large  bouquet  in  his  hand.  He  resumed  his 
former  seat  and  only  when  the  chorus  again 
appeared  on  the  proscenium  did  he  rise,  walk 
over  to  the  orchestra  and  throw  the  flowers  at 
Janina' s  feet.  Then  he  turned  about  calmly, 
passed  through  the  hall  and  vanished,  without 
caring  that  he  had  called  forth  a  sensation 
in  the  theater. 

The  girl  automatically  picked  up  the  flowers 
and  retreated  to  the  back  of  the  stage  behind 
her  companions,  feeling  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
audience  centered  upon  her. 

"Is  there  a  'soul'  in  it?"  whispered  Ziel- 
iaska,  pointing  to  the  bouquet. 

"Look  in  the  center  of  the  flowers,  perhaps 
you  will  find  something  among  them,"  another 
one  of  the  chorus  girls  whispered  to  her. 

Janina  did  not  look,  but  felt  a  deep  gratitude 
toward  Grzesikiewicz  for  those  flowers.  After 
the  curtain  fell  she  left  the  stage  without  pay- 


The  Comedienne  281 

ing  any  attention  to  the  violent  quarrel  that 
broke  out  between  Glas  and  Dobek. 

Glas  was  jumping  with  rage,  while  Dobek 
was  slowly  putting  on  his  overcoat  and  calmly 
and  tauntingly  answering:  "An  eye  for  an  eye. 
Sweet  is  vengeance  to  the  human  heart." 

He  had  revenged  himself  for  the  trick  that 
Glas  had  played  on  him  on  the  foregoing  day 
when  he  had  got  Dobek  drunk  and  together 
with  Wladek  made  him  up  as  a  negro.  Dobek 
as  soon  as  he  had  sobered  a  bit  had  calmly  gone 
straight  from  the  saloon  to  the  theater  with- 
out knowing  what  had  happened  to  his 
physiognomy.  They  had  a  roaring  good  time 
behind  the  scenes,  but  Dobek  swore  vengeance 
and  kept  his  word,  threatening  in  addition  that 
he  would  yet  get  square  with  Wladek. 

Cabinski,  irritated  by  what  had  happened 
on  the  stage,  said  all  kinds  of  things  to  Glas, 
but  the  latter  did  not  answer  him,  so  deeply 
humiliated  was  he  by  his  breakdown  on  the 
stage. 

Janina  all  dressed  in  her  street  attire,  was 
only  waiting  for  Sowinska  to  go  home  with 
her,  when  Wladek  sidled  up  to  her  and  softly 
asked : 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  accompany  you?  .  .  ." 


282  The  Comedienne 

"I  am  going  with  Sowinska  and  besides  you 
live  in  another  part  of  the  city,"  answered 
Janina. 

"Sowinska  has  just  requested  me  to  tell  you 
that  she  will  not  return  for  an  hour.  She  is 
at  the  director's  house.'* 

"Well  then,  let  us  go." 

"Perhaps  your  bouquet  is  in  the  way,  let  me 
carry  it  for  you  .  .  ."he  said,  extending  his 
hand  to  take  the  flowers. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you.  .  .  ."  answered  Janina. 

"It  must  be  very  precious!  .  .  ."he  said, 
emphasizing  his  words  with  a  laugh. 

"I  don't  know  how  much  it  costs,"  she  an- 
swered coldly,  showing  no  disposition  to 
converse  with  him. 

Wladek  laughed,  then  he  spoke  about  his 
mother  and  finally  said:  "Perhaps  you  will 
come  to  see  us?  My  mother  is  ill  and  for  a  few 
days  she  has  not  left  her  bed." 

' '  Your  mother  is  ill?  Why,  I  saw  her  in  the 
theater  to-day." 

"Is  that  possible!"  he  cried  in  real  confu- 
sion. "  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  was  certain 
she  was  ill  ...  for  my  mother  told  me  that 
for  a  few  days  she  has  not  risen  from  her 
bed. 


The  Comedienne  283 

"My  mother  is  trying  some  scheme  on 
me  .  .  . "  he  finally  added  with  a  frown. 

Old  Niedzielska  was  merely  continually  and 
persistently  spying  on  him  and  always  had  to 
know  with  whom  he  was  carrying  on  a  ro- 
mance, for  she  constantly  trembled  at  the 
thought  that  Wladek  might  marry  some 
actress. 

He  took  leave  of  Janina  with  an  attitude  of 
exaggerated  respect  at  the  very  door  of  her 
house  and  told  her  that  he  must  go  to  see4  his 
mother  to  convince  himself  about  her  illness. 

As  soon  as  Janina  had  entered  the  house, 
Wladek  went  to  the  theater  and,  meeting 
Sowinska,  held  a  long  and  secret  conversation 
with  her.  The  old  woman  eyed  him  derisively 
and  promised  him  her  support. 

Then  he  hurried  away  to  Krzykiewicz's 
house  for  a  game  of  cards,  for  they  would  often 
arrange  such  card-playing  evenings  now  at 
this,  now  at  another  actor's  home,  to  which 
they  would  invite  many  of  their  friends  from 
the  public. 

Janina,  having  entered  her  room,  placed 
her  flowers  in  a  vase  with  water  and,  retiring 
to  sleep,  gazed  once  more  at  the  roses  and 
tenderly  whispered:  "How  good  he  is!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"PLEASE  miss,  here's  the  circular!"  cried 
Wicek,  entering  Janina' s  room. 

"What  is  the  news?  .  .  ." 

"The  reading  of  that  new  play,  or  some- 
thing like  that!"  he  replied  prying  about  the 
room. 

Janina  signed  her  name  to  the  circular  in 
which  the  stage-manager  summoned  the  entire 
company  to  appear  at  noon  for  the  reading 
of  Glogowski's  play  The  Churls. 

"A  fine  bouquet!"  exclaimed  Wicek,  eyeing 
the  flowers  standing  in  the  vase.  ' '  You  might 
still  melt  it.  ..." 

"Speak  like  a  human  being!"  said  Janina, 
handing  back  the  signed  paper. 

"That  means  I  could  still  sell  that  bouquet 
for  you." 

"But  who  sells  such  bouquets  and  who  buys 
them?  ..." 

"Pardon  me,  miss,  but  I  see  you  are  still 
green!  Some  ladies  as  soon  as  they  receive 

284 


The  Comedienne  285 

flowers,  sell  them  to  the  old  woman  who 
peddles  flowers  in  the  evening  at  the  theater. 
I  could  get  a  ruble  easy  for  that.  If  you  would 
give  it  to  me  ..." 

"  You  can't  have  it.  .  .  .  But  here's  some- 
thing else  for  you." 

Wicek  humbly  kissed  Janina's  hand,  over- 
joyed with  the  ruble  she  gave  him. 

After  Wicek's  departure  Janina  changed  the 
water  in  the  vase  with  the  flowers  and  was  just 
standing  it  on  the  table  when  Sowinska 
entered  with  her  breakfast. 

Sowinska  was  to-day  all  radiant:  her  gray, 
owlish  eyes  were  beaming  with  unaccustomed 
friendliness. 

The  old  woman  stood  the  coffee  on  the  table 
and,  pointing  to  the  bouquet,  remarked  with  a 
smile : ' '  What  beautiful  flowers !  Are  they  from 
that  gentleman  who  was  here  yesterday?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  curt  reply. 

"I  know  someone  who  would  be  very 
pleased  to  send  you  the  same  kind  every 
day.  ..."  Sowinska  spoke  in  a  tone  of  pre- 
tended indifference,  as  she  tidied  the  room. 

"Flowers?"  asked  Janina. 

"Well  .  .  .  and  something  more,  if  it  were 
accepted." 


The  Comedienne 


"That  person  would  have  to  be  quite  a 
fool." 

"Don't  you  know  that  love  makes  fools  of 
everyone?" 

"That  may  be,"  answered  Janina  curtly. 

'"Don't  you  surmise  who  it  is?" 

"I'm  not  at  all  curious." 

"Yet,  you  know  him  very  well." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  don't  need  any 
information." 

"Don't  get  angry.  .  .  .  What  is  there 
wrong  in  it?  .  .  ."  slowly  drawled  Sowinska. 

"Ah,  so  it  is  you  who  presume  to  tell  me 
that?  ..." 

"Yes  I,  and  you  know  that  I  wish  you  as 
well  as  I  wish  my  own  daughter." 

"You  wish  me  as  well  as  your  own  daugh- 
ter?" slowly  repeated  Janina,  looking  straight 
into  the  other's  face. 

Sowinska  dropped  her  eyes  and  silently 
left  the  room,  but  behind  the  door  she  paused 
and  shook  her  fist  threateningly. 

'  '  You  saint  !     Wait  !  "  she  hissed. 

When  Janina  reached  the  theater  she  found 
only  Piesh,  Topolski,  and  Glogowski  present. 

Glogowski  approached  her  with  a  smile, 
extending  his  hand. 


The  Comedienne  287 

"  Good  morning.  I  was  thinking  about  you 
yesterday;  you  must  unfailingly  thank  me 
for  that.  ..." 

11 1  do  thank  you!  But  I'm  curious  to 
know  ..." 

"I  assure  you  I  didn't  think  ill  about  you. 
...  I  didn't  think  about  you  as  others  of  my 
sex  would  think  about  such  beautiful  women 
as  you,  no!  May  I  croak  if  I  did!  I  thought 
.  .  .  'Where  does  your  strength  come 
from?" 

"No  doubt  from  the  same  source  as  weak- 
ness comes  from;  it's  inherent,"  answered 
Janina  seating  herself. 

"  You  must  have  some  nice  little  dogma  and 
with  your  mind  fixed  on  that  you  go  forward. 
That  dogma  has  reddish-yellow  hair,  a  yearly 
income  of  about  ten  thousand  rubles,  he  wears 
binoculars  and  ..."  jested  Topolski. 

"And  .  .  .  forget  the  rest  of  it!  It's 
always  time  enough  for  nonsense,  that 
never  grows  old,"  Glogowski  interrupted 
Topolski. 

"You'll  also  drink  with  us,  won't  you,  Miss 
Janina?" 

' '  Thank  you !     I  don't  drink. ' ' 

"  But  you  must  .  .  .  if  it  be  only  to  moisten 


288  The  Comedienne 

your  lips.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  funeral 
celebration  over  my  play,"  joked  Glogowski. 

' '  Exaggeration ! ' '  mumbled  Piesh. 

"Well,  we  shall  see!  Come  on,  Mr.  Piesh, 
Mr.  Topolski,  let's  have  another,"  cried 
Glogowski,  pouring  out  the  cognac. 

He  smiled  and  joked  continually,  led  the 
arriving  actors  to  the  buffet  and  seemed  very 
lively,  but  one  could  see  that  under  his  forced 
gayety  there  was  a  hidden  anxiety  and  doubt 
regarding  the  success  of  his  play. 

On  the  veranda  a  noisy  little  revel  had 
begun,  where  Glogowski  was  treating  every- 
body, but  the  humors  of  all  those  present 
seemed  to  be  partially  dampened  by  the  driz- 
zling weather.  Cabinski  every  now  and  then 
gazed  up  at  the  sky,  took  off  his  top  hat  and 
scratched  his  head  with  dissatisfaction.  Pepa 
walked  about  as  glum  as  an  autumn  day  .  .  . 
Majkowska  glared  at  Topolski  with  fiery  eyes 
and  seemed  to  have  a  great  desire  to  create 
a  scene,  for  her  lips  were  pale  and  her  eyes  red, 
either  from  crying  or  sleeplessness.  Glas  also 
stalked  about  like  a  poisoned  man  after 
yesterday's  fiasco  and  failed  to  utter  a  single 
one  of  his  usual  jokes.  Razowiec  was  examin- 
ing his  tongue  in  a  mirror  and  lamenting  to 


The  Comedienne  289 

Mrs.  Piesh.  Even  Wawrzecki  was  not  "in 
the  proper  situation,"  as  he  chose  to  describe 
his  indisposition. 

"It  is  half -past  twelve.  .  .  .  Come,  let's 
begin  to  read  the  play,"  said  Topolski,  the 
stage-manager. 

A  table  was  pushed  out  into  the  center  of  the 
stage,  chairs  were  placed  around  it  and  Topol- 
ski, armed  with  a  pencil,  began  to  read. 

Glogowski  did  not  sit  down,  but  kept  walk- 
ing about  in  big  circles  and  every  time  he 
passed  Janina  he  would  whisper  some  remark 
at  which  she  laughed  quietly,  while  he  con- 
tinued to  pace  about,  rumple  his  hair,  throw 
his  hat  into  the  air  and  smoke  one  cigarette 
after  another,  all  the  time,  however,  listening 
attentively  to  the  reading. 

Outside  the  rain  continued  to  drizzle  and 
the  water  dripped  monotonously  down  the 
drainpipes.  The  drab,  dull  daylight  streamed 
in  upon  the  stage.  Glas  amused  himself  by 
throwing  cigarette  butts  at  Dobek's  nose,  while 
Wladek  gently  blew  at  the  head  of  the  dozing 
Mirowska.  From  the  dressing-room  came  the 
buzz  of  a  saw  cutting  wood  and  the  hammer- 
ing of  nails — it  was  the  stage  mechanician  pre- 
paring his  props  for  the  evening  performance. 


290  The  Comedienne 

"Mr.  Glogowski,  we  shall  have  to  cut 
out  a  little  here,"  remarked  Topolski  occa- 
sionally. 

"Go  ahead!"  Glogowski  would  reply,  con- 
tinuing his  promenade. 

The  whispers  grew  louder. 

"Kaminska  will  you  go  downtown  with 
me?  I  want  to  buy  some  material  for  a 
dress." 

"All  right,  we  shall  look  over  some  autumn 
capes  while  we're  at  it." 

"What  is  that  going  to  be?  .  .  .  an  inser- 
tion?" Rosinska  asked  Mrs.  Piesh  who  was 
busily  crocheting  something. 

"Yes,  do  you  see  what  a  nice  design  it  is? 
I  got  a  sample  from  the  directress." 

Again  there  followed  a  moment  of  complete 
silence  in  which  was  heard  nothing  but  the 
even  voice  of  the  stage-manager,  the  dripping 
of  the  rain  and  the  buzz  of  the  saw  in  the 
dressing-room. 

"Let  me  have  a  cigarette,"  said  Wawrzecki 
turning  to  Wladek.  "Did  you  win  anything 
at  cards  yesterday?" 

"I  lost,  as  usual,  just  as  I  was  on  the  point 
of  making  a  big  haul  of  three  hundred  rubles. 
Some  luck,  eh?  ...  A  certain  plan  has 


The  Comedienne  291 

occurred  to  my  mind!  .  .  ."  Wladek  leaned 
over  toward  Wawrzecki  and  began  to  whisper 
secretly  into  his  ear. 

"What  have  you  done  about  your  living 
quarters?"  Krzykiewicz  asked  Glas,  handing 
him  a  cigarette. 

"Oh,  nothing,  I'm  still  living  in  the  same 
place." 

"Are  you  paying  your  rent?" 

"Not  yet,  but  soon!"  answered  the  come- 
dian, winking  one  of  his  eyes. 

"Listen  Glas!  I  heard  that  Cabinski  is 
buying  a  house  on  Leszno  Street." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  tell  me!  By  Gad, 
I'd  immediately  move  into  it  to  make  up  for 
the  salary  he  owes  me.  Where  would  he  get 
the  money?" 

"  Ciepieszewski  saw  him  with  the  agents  who 
have  the  house  for  sale." 

' '  Nurse ! ' '  called  Cabinska. 

The  nurse  hastily  entered  carrying  a  letter 
under  her  apron. 

"It  wasn't  I,  it  was  Felka  who  broke  that 
looking-glass.  She  threw  a  champagne  bottle 
aiming  at  the  chandelier,  but  struck  the  mirror 
instead.  Bang !  and  immediately  thirty  rubles 
were  added  to  the  bill.  That  fat  guy  of  hers 


292  The  Comedienne 

merely  frowned,"  one  of  the  chorus  girls  was 
relating. 

"Don't  lie!  I  was  not  drunk  and  I  remem- 
ber exactly  who  broke  it,"  retorted  Felka. 

"You  remember  do  you?  Do  you  also  re- 
member how  you  jumped  off  the  table  and  then 
took  off  your  shoes  and  .  .  .ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"Be  quiet  there!"  sharply  called  Topolski 
to  the  chorus  girls. 

They  subdued  their  voices,  but  Mimi  began 
almost  aloud  to  tell  Kaczkowska  about  a  new 
style  of  hat  she  had  seen  on  Long  Street. 

"If  it  goes  on  that  way  much  longer,  I 
won't  be  able  to  stand  it!  The  landlord  has 
ordered  me  to  move.  Yesterday  I  pawned 
almost  the  last  rag,  for  I  had  to  buy  my 
Johnnie  some  wine.  The  poor  little  fellow  is 
convalescing  so  slowly.  He  already  wants  to 
get  out  of  bed  and  is  getting  restless  and  peev- 
ish. If  Ciepieszewski  doesn't  engage  me  and 
pay  me  in  advance,  the  landlord  will  throw  me 
out  into  the  street,"  whispered  Wolska  to  one 
of  her  companions  of  the  chorus. 

"But  are  you  sure  Ciepieszewski  is  organiz- 
ing a  company?"  asked  her  listener. 

"He  is,  undoubtedly.  I  am  to  see  him  in  a 
few  days  to  sign  a  contract." 


The  Comedienne  293 

"So  you're  not  going  to  stay  with 
Cabinski?" 

"No,  he  doesn't  want  to  pay  the  overdue 
salary  he  owes  me." 

Thirty  years  were  written  plainly  on  Wol- 
ska's  wearied  face  on  which  worry  had  left  its 
deep  marks.  The  thick  layer  "of  powder  and 
rouge  could  not  coneal  those  wrinkles,  nor  the 
unrest  that  glowed  in  her  eyes.  She  had  a 
six-year-old  son  who  had  been  ill  since  the 
spring.  She  defended  him  desperately,  at  the 
expense  of  starving  herself. 

"Counselor!  Welcome  to  our  company!" 
cried  Glas,  spying  the  old  man,  who  for  a  few 
weeks  had  not  been  seen  in  the  theater. 

The  counselor  entered  and  began  greeting 
everybody.  The  reading  of  the  play  was 
interrupted,  for  all  sprang  up  from  their 
seats. 

"Good  morning!  Good  morning!  Am  I 
interrupting  you?" 

"No,  no!"  chorused  the  actors. 

"Have  a  seat,  Counselor.  We  shall  listen 
together,"  cried  Cabinska. 

"Ah,  young  master!  my  regards  to  you!" 
called  the  counselor  to  Glogowski. 

"An  old  idiot!"  growled  Glogowski,  nod- 


294  The  Comedienne 

ding  his  head  and  hiding  behind  the  scenes,  for 
he  was  already  exasperated  at  those  continual 
interruptions  and  conversations. 

1 '  Silence !  For  goodness*  sake,  this  is  getting 
to  be  like  a  real  synagogue! "  cried  the  irritated 
Topolski  and  began  to  read  on. 

But  no  one  listened  any  longer.  The 
directress  left  with  the  counselor  and,  one  by 
one,  the  others  quietly  slipped  out  after  her. 
The  rain  began  to  pour  heavily  and  beat  so 
noisy  a  tattoo  upon  the  tin  roof  of  the  theater 
that  it  drowned  out  all  other  sounds.  It 
became  so  dark,  that  Topolski  could  not  see 
to  read. 

The  entire  company  removed  to  the  men's 
dressing-room.  It  was  lighter  and  warmer 
there,  so  they  began  to  chat. 

Janina  stood  together  with  Glogowski  in  the 
doorway  and  was  saying  something  in  an 
enthusiastic  voice  about  the  theater  when 
Rosinska  interrupted  her  with  derision: 
"Goodness,  you  seem  to  be  obsessed  by  the 
theater!  .  .  .  Well,  well,  I  would  never  have 
believed  such  a  thing  possible  had  I  not  heard 
it.  .  .  ." 

"Why,  it's  simple  enough;  the  theater  holds 
everything  that  I  desire." 


The  Comedienne  295 

"I,  on  the  other  hand,  only  begin  to  live 
outside  of  the  theater." 

"Then  why  don't  you  abandon  the  stage?" 

"If  I  only  could  break  away.  I'd  not 
stay  here  another  hour!"  she  answered  with 
bitterness. 

"That's  merely  talk!  Each  one  of  us  could 
break  away  from  the  theater,  if  we  only 
would,"  said  Wolska  quietly.  "For  me  this 
life  is  harder  than  for  any  of  you  and  I  know 
that  if  I  forsook  the  stage  my  lot  would  be 
much  better,  but  whenever  I  think  that  I  shall 
have  to  quit  the  stage  some  day,  so  great  a 
fear  besets  me  that  it  seems  as  though  I  should 
die  without  it." 

"The  theater  is  a  slow  poisoning,  a  dying 
by  inches  each  day!"  complained  Razowiec. 

"Don't  you  whine,  for  your  sickness  comes 
not  from  the  theater,  but  from  your  stom- 
ach," remarked  Wawrzecki. 

"That  continual  dying  and  poisoning  is, 
nevertheless,  a  kind  of  ecstasy! "  began  Janina 
anew. 

"Oh,  a  splendid  ecstasy!  If  you  want  to 
call  hunger,  continual  envy,  and  the  inability  to 
live  otherwise,  an  ecstasy!"  sneered  Rosinska. 

' '  Happy  are  they  who  have  not  fallen  a  prey 


296  The  Comedienne 

to  that  disease,  or  escaped  it  in  time/'  added 
Razowiec. 

''But  isn't  it  better  to  live  and  suffer  and 
die  in  that  way,  as  long  as  you  have  art  as 
your  goal.  A  thousand  times  would  I  prefer 
to  live  that  way  than  to  be  my  husband's  ser- 
vant, the  slave  of  my  children,  and  a  house- 
hold chattel!"  exclaimed  Janina  with  a 
passionate  outburst. 

Wladek  began  to  declaim  with  a  comical 
pathos: 

"Oh  priestess,  most  elect! 
To  thee,  in  this  temple  of  art, 
High  altars  I'll  erect! 

' '  Please  forgive  me  that , ' '  continued  Wladek. 
"I  myself  say  that  outside  of  art  there  is 
nothing!  If  it  were  not  for  the  theater  ..." 

"You  would  have  become  a  cobbler!" 
interposed  Glas. 

"Only  a  very  young  and  a  very  naive 
woman  can  talk  like  that,"  spitefully  ex- 
claimed Kaczkowska. 

"Or  one  who  does  not  yet  know  what 
Cabinski's  salary  tastes  like,"  added  Rosinska. 

"Oh,  thou  art  worthy  of  pity!  You  have 
enthusiasm  .  .  .  poverty  will  rob  you  of  it; 


The  Comedienne  297 

you  have  inspiration  .  .  .  poverty  will  rob 
you  of  it;  you  have  youth,  talent,  and  beauty 
.  .  .  poverty  will  rob  you  of  it  all ! ' '  declaimed 
Piesh  in  the  stern  tones  of  an  oracle. 

"No,  all  that  is  nothing!  .  .  .  But  such  a 
company,  such  artists,  such  plays  as  these 
will  ruin  everything.  And  if  you  are  able  to 
endure  such  a  hell  then  you  will  become  a  great 
artist!"  whispered  Stanislawski  sourly. 

"A  master  has  proclaimed  it,  so  bow  your 
heads,  oh  multitude,  and  say  that  it  must  be 
so!"  jeered  Wawrzecki. 

"Fool!  .  .  .   "  snarled  Stanislawski. 

"Mummy!"  retorted  Wawrzecki. 

"I'll  tell  you  how  I  began  my  career,"  said 
Wladek.  "I  was  in  the  fourth  grade  at  school 
when  I  saw  Rossi  in  Hamlet  and  from  that 
moment  the  theater  claimed  me  entirely!  I 
pilfered  cash  from  my  father  to  buy  tragedies 
and  attended  the  theater.  I  spent  whole  days 
and  nights  in  learning  r61es,  and  dreamed  that 
I  would  conquer  the  whole  world  ..." 

"And  you're  nothing  but  a  tyro  in  Cabin- 
ski's  company,"  jeered  Dobek. 

"I  learned  that  Richter  had  come  to  War- 
saw and  intended  to  open  a  school  of  dramatic 
art,"  continued  Wladek.  "  I  went  to  see  him, 


298  The  Comedienne 

for  I  felt  that  I  had  talent  and  wished  to  learn. 
He  lived  on  St.  John's  Street.  I  came  to  his 
house  and  rang  the  bell.  He  opened  the  door 
himself,  let  me  in  and  then  locked  it.  I  began 
to  perspire  with  fear  and  didn't  know  how  to 
begin.  I  stood  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other.  He  was  calmly  washing  a  saucepan. 
Then,  he  poured  some  oil  into  an  oil-stove, 
took  off  his  coat,  put  on  a  house- jacket  and 
began  to  peel  potatoes. 

"After  a  long  silence,  seeing  that  I  would  not 
get  him  to  respond  in  that  way,  I  began  to 
stammer  something  about  my  calling,  my  love 
of  art,  my  desire  to  learn  and  so  forth.  .  .  . 
He  continued  to  peel  his  potatoes.  Finally, 
I  asked  him  to  give  me  lessons.  He  glanced 
at  me  and  grumbled:  'How  old  are  you,  my 
boy?'  I  stood  there  dumbfounded  like  a 
mummy  and  he  continued  to  question:  'Did 
you  come  with  your  mother?'  Tears  began 
to  fill  my  eyes,  while  he  spoke  again:  'Your 
father  will  give  you  a  walloping,  and  they'll 
expel  you  from  school.'  I  felt  so  distressed 
and  humiliated  that  I  could  not  utter  a  word 
'Recite  some  verse  for  me,  young  man,'  he 
said  quietly,  all  the  while  systematically  peel- 
ing his  potatoes." 


The  Comedienne  299 

"So  your  inclination  to  roar  on  the  stage 
harks  away  back  to  those  days,  eh?"  jeered 
Glas. 

"Glas,  don't  interrupt  me.  .  .  .  Ha! 
thought  I,  I'll  have  to  show  him!  And 
although  I  was  all  trembling  with  emotion  I 
assumed  a  tragic  pose  and  began  to  recite.  .  .  . 
I  writhed,  shouted,  burst  out  in  a  fit  of  passion 
like  Othello,  seethed  with  hatred,  like  a  samo- 
var and  finally  finished,  all  covered  with  per- 
spiration. 'Some  more,'  said  Richter,  con- 
tinually peeling  the  potatoes,  while  not  a 
single  muscle  of  his  face  betrayed  what  he 
thought  of  it  all.  I  thought  that  everything 
was  going  fine,  so  I  selected  'Hagar.'  I 
despaired  like  Niobe,  cursed  like  Lear,  pleaded, 
threatened,  and  ended  up,  all  exhausted  and 
breathless.  He  said:  'Still  more!'  He 
stopped  peeling  the  potatoes  and  began  to 
chop  meat.  Enraptured  by  the  tone  of 
encouragement  I  selected  from  Slowacki's 
Mazeppa  that  prison-scene  from  the  fourth 
act  and  recited  the  whole  of  it.  I  put  into 
it  so  much  feeling  and  force  that  I  became 
hoarse;  my  hair  stood  on  end,  I  trembled, 
forgot  my  surroundings,  inspiration  carried 
me  away,  fire  blazed  from  me  as  from  a  stove, 


300  The  Comedienne 

my  voice  melted  in  tears.  Tragedy  swept  me 
off  my  feet,  the  room  began  to  dance  about 
me,  a  colored  mist  swam  before  my  eyes,  my 
breath  was  beginning  to  fail,  I  began  to  grow 
weak  and  to  choke  with  emotion,  and  I  seemed 
about  to  faint  .  .  .  when  he  sneezed  and  be- 
gan to  wipe  tears  from  his  eyes  with  his  coat- 
sleeve.  I  stopped  reciting.  He  laid  down 
the  onion  that  he  was  slicing,  put  a  pitcher 
into  my  hand  and  calmly  said  to  me:  'Go 
and  bring  me  some  water.'  I  brought  it.  He 
spilled  the  potatoes  into  it,  stood  them  on  the 
oil-stove  and  lit  the  wick.  I  timidly  asked 
him  whether  I  could  come  to  take  lessons  from 
him.  'Yes,  come/  he  answered,  'you  can 
sweep  the  floor  and  carry  water  for  me.  Do 
you  know  how  to  speak  Chinese?'  'No,'  I 
answered,  not  knowing  what  he  was  driving 
at.  'Well,  then  learn  it  and  come  back  to  me 
and  we  shall  then  speak  about  the  theater!' 
...  I  shall  never  forget  that  moment  as  long 
as  I  live." 

"Don't  get  mawkish  over  it,  for  Glogowski 
won't  treat  you  to  any  more  beer  anyway," 
remarked  Glas. 

"Say  what  you  will,  but  it  is  art  alone  that 
makes  life  worth  something,"  persisted  Wladek. 


The  Comedienne 


"And  didn't  you  see  Richter  again?"  asked 
Janina  curiously. 

"How  could  he  ...  he  hasn't  learned 
Chinese  yet,"  interposed  Glas. 

"No,  I  didn't  go  to  see  him;  and  moreover, 
when  they  expelled  me  from  school  I  immedi- 
ately ran  away  from  home  and  joined  Krzy- 
zanowski's  company,"  answered  Wladek. 

"You  were  with  Krzyzanowski?"  asked 
someone. 

"For  a  whole  year  I  walked  with  him,  his 
wife,  his  son,  the  immortal  Leo  and  one  other 
actress.  I  say  that  I  'walked'  because  in 
those  days  we  seldom  used  other  means  of 
locomotion.  Very  often  there  was  nothing  to 
eat,  but  I  could  act  and  declaim  as  much  as  I 
liked.  I  had  an  enormous  repertoire.  With  a 
cast  of  four  persons  we  presented  Shakespeare 
and  Schiller,  most  wonderfully  made  over  for 
our  own  use  by  Krzyzanowski,  who  besides 
that  had  a  great  many  plays  of  his  own  with 
double  or  quadruple  titles." 

While  the  rain  continued  interminably, 
they  drew  together  in  a  still  closer  circle  and 
chatted.  Suddenly  their  conversation  was 
interrupted  by  loud  cries  from  the  stage. 

"Quiet!  what  is  that?"  asked  everybody. 


The  Comedienne 


"Aha!  Majkowska  versus  Topolski  in  a 
scene  of  free  love." 

Janina  went  out  to  see  what  was  happening. 
On  the  almost  totally  dark  stage  the  heroic 
pair  were  engaged  in  a  quarrel. 

11  Where  were  you?"  cried  Majkowska, 
springing  at  Topolski  with  clenched  fists. 

"Let  me  alone,  Mela." 

"Where  were  you  all  last  night?" 

'  '  I  tell  you,  please  go  away.  ...  If  you  are 
ill,  go  home." 

'  l  You  were  playing  cards  again,  weren't  you? 
And  I  haven't  even  enough  money  for  a  dress  !  I 
couldn't  even  buy  myself  a  supper  last  night  !  " 

"Why  didn't  you  want  the  money  when  you 
could  have  had  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  you'd  want  me  to  have  money  so 
that  you  could  gamble  it  away.  You  would 
even  help  me  to  get  the  money  for  that  pur- 
pose .  .  .  you  base  scoundrel  !" 

She  sprang  at  him  with  nervous  fury.  Her 
beautiful,  statuesque  face  glowed  with  rage. 
She  grasped  his  arm,  pinched  him  and  shook 
him,  without  herself  knowing  what  she  was 
doing. 

Topolski,  losing  his  patience,  struck  her  vio- 
lently away  from  him. 


The  Comedienne  303 

Majkowska  with  almost  a  roar — so  little  did 
her  voice  seem  to  have  in  it  anything  human — 
and  with  spasmodic  laughter,  and  crying,  and 
tragic  wringing  of  hands,  fell  on  her  knees 
before  him. 

"Maurice,  my  soul's  beloved,  forgive  me! 
.  .  .  Light  of  my  life!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  you 
damned  scoundrel,  you!  .  .  .  My  dearest, 
my  dearest,  forgive  me!  .  .  ." 

She  groveled  to  his  feet,  grasped  his  hands 
and  began  rapturously  to  kiss  them. 

Topolski  stood  there  gloomily.  He  felt 
ashamed  of  his  own  anger,  so  he  merely  chewed 
his  cigarette  and  whispered  quietly:  "Come, 
get  up  from  the  floor  and  stop  playing  that 
comedy.  .  .  .  Have  you  no  shame!  ...  In 
a  minute  you  will  have  everybody  in  here 
looking  at  you." 

Majkowska's  mother,  an  old  woman, 
resembling  a  witch,  came  running  up  to  her 
and  tried  to  raise  her  from  the  floor. 

"Mela,  my  daughter!"  she  cried. 

"Mother,  take  that  crazy  woman  away 
from  here;  she  is  continually  creating  scan- 
dals," said  Topolski  and  went  out  into  the 
hall. 

"My  dear  daughter!     Do  you  see!     I  told 


304  The  Comedienne 


you  and  begged  you  not  to  go  with  such  a  poor 
fool!  .  .  .  See  what  your  love  has  brought 
you  to,  my  Mela!  Come,  get  up,  my  child!" 

"Go  to  the  devil,  mother!"  cried  Majkow- 
ska,  pushing  away  her  mother. 

Then  she  sprang  up  from  the  floor  and  began 
to  pace  rapidly  up  and  down  the  stage.  In 
this  violent  motion  she  must  have  spent  the 
rest  of  her  anger,  for  she  began  to  hum  and 
smile  to  herself  and  afterwards  called  to  Ja- 
nina  in  the  most  natural  voice:  " Perhaps  you 
will  take  a  walk  with  me?  ..." 

"Very  well,  it  has  even  stopped  rain- 
ing ..."  answered  the  younger  woman, 
glancing  at  her  face. 

"I  have  a  fine  lover,  haven't  I?  ...  Did 
you  see  what  was  going  on?  " 

11 1  saw  and  cannot  yet  calm  my  indig- 
nation." 

"Oh,  nonsense!" 

"How  can  you  stand  such  a  thing?" 

"I  love  him  too  much  to  pay  attention  to 
such  trifles." 

Janina  began  to  laugh  nervously,  and  said : 
"Such  things  are  to  be  seen  only  in  the 
operetta  .  .  .  well,  and  behind  the  scenes." 

"Bah,  I  will  avenge  myself  for  it ! " 


The  Comedienne  305 

"You  will  avenge  yourself?  I'm  very  cu- 
rious to  know  how.  ..." 

"I  will  marry  him  ...  I  will  make  him 
marry  me!" 

"So  that  will  be  your  vengeance? "  inquired 
Janina  in  amazement. 

"There  couldn't  be  a  better  one.  Oh,  I'll 
make  his  life  warm  for  him!  .  .  .  Come,  I 
have  to  buy  some  chocolate." 

"You  didn't  have  money  for  supper? "  cried 
Janina  involuntarily. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  How  naive  you  still  are! 
You  saw  the  gentlemen  who  sends  me  bou- 
quets and  yet,  you  think  that  I  have  no 
money!  Where  were  you  brought  up?  " 

Suddenly,  she  changed  the  tone  of  her  voice 
and  asked  Janina inquisitively:  "Tell me,  have 
you  also  someone?  ..." 

"I  have  art!"  answered  Janina  gravely,  not 
even  offended  by  her  question. 

"You  are  either  very  ambitious  or  very 
wise  ...  I  did  not  know  you  before.  ..." 
said  Majkowska  and  began  to  listen  more 
attentively. 

"Ambitious  .  .  .  perhaps,  for  I  have  only 
one  object  in  belonging  to  the  theater  and  that 
is  art." 


3°6  The  Comedienne 

"Come,  don't  try  to  play  a  farce  with  me! 
Ha!  ha!  Art,  as  an  aim  of  life!  That  is  a 
theme  for  a  fine  couplet,  but  it  is  an  old 
trick." 

"That  depends  on  the  person  in  question." 

Majkowska  became  silent  and  began  gloom- 
ily to  ponder. 

"It  was  hard  to  catch  up  with  you!"  called 
someone  behind  them. 

"Oh,  what  brings  you  here,  Counselor? 
So  you  are  off  duty?"  spitefully  whispered 
Majkowska,  for  she  knew  that  the  counselor 
always  attended  Cabinska. 

"I  want  to  change  my  mistress.  ...  I  am 
seeking  a  new  position." 

"In  my  service  the  duties  are  very 
exacting." 

"Oh,  in  that  case,  thank  you!  I  am 
already  too  old  ...  I  know  someone  who 
would  be  more  considerate  for  my  age."  And 
he  bowed  to  Janina  with  studied  courtesy. 

"Will  you  come  with  us,  Counselor?"  asked 
Majkowska. 

"Certainly,  but  you  must  permit  me  to  lead 
the  way,  ladies." 

"Very  well,  we'll  agree  to  whatever  you 
suggest." 


The  Comedienne  307 

"I  propose  that  we  have  breakfast  at 
1  Versailles. '" 

"  I  must  return  to  the  theater,"  said  Janina. 

"They've  not  yet  finished  reading  the  play." 

"They'll  finish  it  without  you.  Come,  let 
us  go,"  urged  Majkowska. 

They  walked  slowly,  for  the  rain  had 
stopped  entirely  and  the  July  sun  was  drying 
the  mud  in  the  streets.  The  counselor  wig- 
gled about,  gazed  into  Janina's  eyes  and  smiled 
significantly;  he  bowed  to  acquaintances  he 
met  on  the  way  and  before  the  younger  ones 
he  assumed  the  pose  of  a  conquerer. 

The  " Versailles  Restaurant"  was  empty. 
They  seated  themselves  near  the  balcony  and 
the  counselor  ordered  a  very  choice  breakfast. 

It  was  after  three  o'clock  when  they 
returned  to  the  theater.  The  rehearsal  of  the 
day's  performance  was  in  full  swing.  Cabin- 
ski  was  about  to  grumble  at  them  for  coming 
late,  but  Majkowska  gave  him  such  a  crushing 
look  that  he  merely  frowned  and  walked  away. 

Her  mother  approached  her  with  a  letter. 
Majkowska  read  it,  immediately  scribbled  a 
few  words  in  reply  and  handed  them  to  the  old 
woman. 

"  Deliver  this  right  away,  mother,"  she  said. 


3o8  The  Comedienne 

"Mela,  but  suppose  I  don't  find  him  in?" 
asked  her  mother. 

"Then  wait,  but  do  not  give  it  to  anyone 
else  but  him!  Here's  something  for  your 
trouble,  mother  ..."  and  tapping  her 
throat  with  her  fingers  after  the  custom  of 
drinkers  she  gave  her  a  forty — copeck  piece. 

The  greenish  eyes  of  the  old  woman  gleamed 
with  gratitude  and  she  hurried  away  with  the 
message. 

Janina  looked  for  Glogowski,  but  he  had 
already  left,  so  she  went  out  into  the  hall  to 
the  counselor  who  had  returned  with  them,  for 
she  remembered  that  he  had  promised  to  tell 
her  what  he  had  read  in  her  palm. 

"Mr.  Counselor,  you  owe  me  something," 
she  began,  sitting  down  beside  him. 

"!?...!?...  Upon  my  word  I  don't 
remember  that  I  owe  you  anything." 

"You  promised  to  tell  me  what  you  had 
read  in  my  palm  not  so  long  ago." 

"Yes,  but  not  here.  Come,  we  had  better 
go  to  the  dressing-room  so  that  it  won't 
attract  anyone's  attention." 

They  went  to  the  dressing-room  of  the 
chorus. 

The  counselor  spent  quite  a  while  examin- 


The  Comedienne  309 

ing  both  her  hands  very  minutely  and  finally 
said  with  some  embarrassment:  "Upon  my 
word,  this  is  the  first  time  that  I  see  such 
strange  hands!" 

"Oh,  please  tell  me  everything!" 

"I  can't.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  know  whether 
it's  true." 

"It  makes  no  difference  whether  it  is  true  or 
not,  you  must  tell  me  by  all  means,  my  dear 
Counselor!"  coaxed  Janina. 

"A  mental  disorder  of  some  kind,  it  seems. 
...  Of  course  I  don't  know  and  I  don't 
believe  it.  I  tell  you  only  what  I  see.  but  .  .  . 
but  .  .  ." 

"And  what  of  the  theater?"  Janina  asked. 

"  You  will  be  famous  .  .  .  you  will  be  very 
famous!"  he  whispered  hurriedly  without 
looking  at  her. 

"That  isn't  true;  you  didn't  see  that 
there!"  she  exclaimed,  reading  the  falsehood 
in  his  eyes. 

"My  word!  my  word  of  honor  all  that  is 
written  there!  You  will  achieve  fame,  but 
through  so  much  suffering,  through  so  many 
tears.  .  .  .  Beware  of  dreaming !" 

And  he  kissed  her  hand. 

The  noisy  buzz  of  voices  merged  with  tones 


310  The  Comedienne 

of  music  broke  the  stillness  in  which  both  of 
them  had  become  rapt. 

For  a  little  while  Janina  sat  alone,  after  her 
companion  withdrew,  torn  by  dim  forebodings. 

* '  You  are  going  to  be  very  famous !  Beware 
of  dreaming!"  she  kept  repeating  to  herself. 

That  evening  the  counselor  sent  to  Janina 
a  bouquet,  a  box  of  candy,  and  a  letter  inviting 
her  to  supper  at  the  "Idyl,"  mentioning  that 
Topolski  and  Majkowska  were  also  to  be  there. 

She  read  it  and,  not  knowing  what  to  do, 
asked  Sowinska. 

"Sell  the  bouquet,  eat  the  candy,  and  go  to 
the  supper." 

"So  that  is  your  advice?  ..."  asked 
Janina. 

Sowinska  scornfully  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Janina  angrily  threw  the  bouquet  in  a 
corner,  distributed  the  candy  among  the 
chorus  girls,  and  after  the  performance  went 
straight  home,  highly  indignant  at  the  coun- 
selor whom  she  had  looked  upon  as  a  very 
serious  and  honest  man. 

On  the  next  day  at  the  rehearsal  Majkow- 
ska remarked  tauntingly  to  Janina:  "You 
are  an  immaculate  romanticist." 

"No,  only  I  respect  myself, ' '  answered  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  311 

"Get  thee  to  a  nunnery!"  declaimed  Maj- 
kowska. 

In  the  afternoon  Janina  went  as  usual  to 
Cabinska's  home  to  give  Yadzia  her  piano 
lesson,  but  she  could  not  forget  that  scorn- 
ful shrug  of  Sowinska's  shoulders  and  Maj- 
kowska's  words. 

She  finished  the  lesson  and  then  sat  for  a 
long  time  playing  Chopin's  Nocturnes,  finding 
in  their  melancholy  strains  a  balm  for  her  own 
sorrows. 

"Miss  Janina  .  .  .  My  husband  has  left 
a  r61e  here  for  you! "  called  Cabinska  from  the 
other  room. 

Janina  closed  the  piano  and  began  to  peruse 
the  r61e.  It  consisted  of  a  few  words  from 
Glogowski's  new  play  and  did  not  satisfy  her 
in  the  least,  for  it  was  nothing  but  a  short 
little  episode.  Nevertheless,  this  was  to  be  her 
first  real  appearance  in  the  drama. 

The  play  had  been  postponed  until  the 
following  Thursday  and  rehearsals  of  it  were 
to  be  held  every  afternooon,  for  Glogowski 
had  earnestly  requested  that  and  generously 
treated  the  entire  cast  each  day  to  get  them  to 
learn  their  roles  well. 

A  few  days  after  receiving  her  first   r61e 


The  Comedienne 


Janina's  first  month  at  Sowinska's  expired. 
The  old  woman  reminded  her  of  it  in  the  morn- 
ing, asking  for  the  money  as  soon  as  possible. 

Janina  gave  her  ten  rubles,  solemnly  promis- 
ing to  pay  the  balance  in  a  few  days.  She 
had  only  a  few  rubles  left  of  her  entire  capital. 
She  thought  in  astonishment  how  she  had 
spent  the  two  hundred  rubles  which  she  had 
brought  with  her  from  Bukowiec. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  Janina  asked 
herself,  determining  as  soon  as  possible  to  ask 
Cabinski  for  her  overdue  salary. 

She  did  so  at  the  very  next  rehearsal. 

"I  haven't  the  money!"  cried  Cabinski  at 
once.  "Moreover,  I  never  pay  beginners  in 
my  company  for  the  first  month.  It's  strange 
that  no  one  informed  you  about  that.  Others 
are  already  here  a  whole  season  and  they  don't 
bother  me  about  their  salaries." 

Janina  listened  in  consternation  and  finally 
said  frankly:  "Mr.  Director,  in  a  week's  time 
I  will  not  have  a  penny  left  to  live  on." 

"And  that  old  .  .  .  counselor  .  .  .  can't 
he  give  it  to  you?  .  .  .  Surely,  everyone 
knows  that  ..." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Director!"  whispered  Janina, 
blushing  deeply. 


The  Comedienne  3J3 

"A  pretty  deceiver!"  he  muttered  with  a 
cynical  twist  of  his  lips. 

Janina  forcibly  suppressed  her  indignation 
and  said:  "  In  the  meantime  I  need  ten  rubles, 
for  I  must  buy  myself  a  costume  for  the  new 
play." 

:<Ten  rubles!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  That's  great! 
Even  Majkowska  does  not  ask  for  so  much 
at  one  time!  Ten  rubles!  what  delightful 
simplicity!"  Cabinski  laughed  heartily  and 
then,  turning  to  go,  he  said:  "Remind  me  of  it 
this  evening  and  I  will  give  you  an  order  to  the 
treasurer/' 

That  evening  Janina  received  one  ruble. 

Janina  knew  that  the  chorus  girls  even  after 
the  most  profitable  performance  received  only 
fifty  copecks  on  account  and  usually  only  two 
gold  pieces  or  forty  groszy.  Only  now,  did 
she  recall  those  sad  and  worn  faces  of  the 
elder  actresses.  There  were  revealed  to  her 
now  many  things  that  she  had  never  seen 
before,  or  seeing  them,  had  never  understood. 
Her  own  want  opened  wide  her  eyes  to  the 
poverty  that  oppressed  everyone  in  the  theater 
and  those  hidden  daily  struggles  with  it  that 
they  often  disguised  under  a  glittering  veil  of 
gayety. 


3H  The  Comedienne 

That  daily  standing  before  the  treasurer's 
window  and  fairly  begging  for  money,  which 
she  was  now  compelled  to  do,  cast  a  shadow 
over  Janina's  soul  and  filled  her  with  bitter- 
ness. It  made  her  all  the  more  eager  to  get 
a  larger  role  so  that  she  might  get  out  of  that 
hated  chorus,  but  Cabinski  steadily  put  her  off. 

Kotlicki  hovered  about  Janina  incessantly, 
but  did  not  renew  his  proposal  and  seemed  to 
be  waiting  his  chance. 

Wladek  was, the  most  companionable  of  all 
in  regard  to  Janina  and  told  everyone  that  she 
visited  his  mother.  Niedzielska  continually 
spied  on  Wladek,  for  she  already  suspected 
him  of  liking  Janina. 

The  girl  received  Wladek' s  attentions  with 
the  .same  indifference  that  she  received  Kot- 
licki's,  with  the  same  indifference  that  she 
received  the  bouquets  and  candy  which  the 
counselor  sent  her  every  day.  None  of  these 
three  silent  admirers  interested  her  in  the 
least  and  she  kept  them  at  a  respectable 
distance  from  herself  by  her  coolness. 

The  other  actresses  ridiculed  Janina's 
inflexibility,  but  in  their  hearts  they  sincerely 
envied  her.  She  ignored  their  spiteful 
remarks,  for  she  knew  that  to  answer  them 


The  Comedienne  3J5 

would  be  merely  to  invite  a  greater  avalanche 
of  ridicule. 

Janina  liked  only  Glogowski,  who  because 
of  the  coming  presentation  of  his  play  would 
spend  whole  days  at  the  theater.  He  openly 
singled  her  out  as  an  object  of  his  special 
regard  from  among  all  the  women,  spoke 
only  with  her  on  weighty  subjects  and 
treated  her  alone  as  a  human  being.  She 
felt  highly  flattered  and  grateful.  She  liked 
him  especially  because  he  never  mentioned 
love  to  her,  nor  boasted.  Often  they  would 
go  together  for  walks  in  Lazienki  Park .  Janina 
associated  with  him  on  a  footing  of  sincere 
friendship. 

After  the  final  rehearsal  of  The  Churls,  Glo- 
gowski and  Janina  left  the  theater  together.  He 
seemed  to  be  more  gloomy  than  usual .  He  was 
racked  with  anxiety  over  his  play  that  was  to 
be  given  that  evening,  yet  he  laughed  aloud. 

"Suppose  we  take  a  ride  to  the  Botanical 
Gardens.  Do  you  agree?"  he  suggested. 

Janina  assented  and  they  started  off. 

They  found  an  unoccupied  seat  near  one  of 
the  pools,  under  a  huge  plane  tree  and  for  a 
time  sat  there  in  silence. 

The  garden  was  fairly  empty.     A  few  per- 


316  The  Comedienne 

sons  seated  here  and  there  upon  the  benches 
appeared  like  shadows  in  the  sultry  air.  The 
last  roses  of  summer  gleamed  with  their  bright 
hues  through  the  foliage  of  the  low-hanging 
branches;  the  stocks  in  the  central  flower-bed 
diffused  a  heavy  fragrance.  The  birds  twit- 
tered only  at  rare  intervals  with  somnolent 
voices.  The  trees  stood  motionless  as  though 
listening  to  the  sunlit  tranquility  of  that 
August  day.  Only  now  and  then  some  leaf 
or  withered  twig  would  float  down  in  a  spiral 
line  upon  the  lawns.  The  golden  splashes  of 
sunlight  filtering  through  the  branches  formed 
a  shifting  mosaic  upon  the  grass  and  gleamed 
like  strips  of  pale  platinum. 

"Let  the  devil  take  it  all!"  Glogowski 
occasionally  flung  out  into  the  silence  and  dis- 
tractedly rumpled  his  hair. 

Janina  merely  glanced  at  him,  loath  to  mar 
with  words  the  silence  that  enveloped  her — 
that  calm  of  nature  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  exces- 
sive warmth.  She  also  was  lulled  by  some 
unknown  tenderness  that  had  no  connection 
with  any  particular  thing,  but  seemed  to  float 
down  out  of  space,  from  the  blue  sky,  from 
the  transparent  whiteness  of  the  slowly  sailing 
clouds  from  the  deep  verdure  of  the  trees. 


The  Comedienne  317 

"For  goodness'  sake,  say  something,  or  I'll 
go  crazy,  or  get  hydrophobia!  .  .  ."he  sud- 
denly exclaimed. 

Janina  burst  out  laughing,  "Well,  let  us 
talk  about  this  evening,  if  about  nothing  else,'1 
ventured  the  girl. 

"Do  you  want  to  drive  me  crazy  altogether? 
May  the  deuce  take  me,  but  I  fear  I  won't 
endure  till  this  evening!" 

"But  haven't  you  told  me  that  this  is  not 
your  first  play,  so  ..." 

"Yes,  but  at  the  presentation  of  each  new 
one  the  ague  always  shakes  me,  for  always  at 
the  last  moment  I  see  that  I  have  written 
rubbish,  tommyrot,  cheap  trash  ..." 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  judge,  but  I  liked 
the  play  immensely.  It  is  so  frank." 

"What?  Do  you  mean  that  seriously? "  he 
cried. 

"Of  course." 

"For  you  see,  I  told  myself  that  if  this  play 
fails,  I  shall  ..." 

"Will  you  give  up  writing?" 

' '  No,  but  I  shall  vanish  from  the  horizon  for 
a  few  months  and  write  another  one.  I  will 
write  a  second,  a  third  ...  I  will  write  until 
I  produce  a  perfectly  good  one !  I  must ! ' ' 


3l8  The  Comedienne 

"Tell  me,  do  you  think  Majkowska  will 
make  a  good  Antka  in  my  play?"  he  suddenly 
asked. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  that  r61e  is  well-suited 
to  her." 

"Maurice  also  will  play  his  part  well,  but 
the  rest  of  them  are  a  miserable  lot  and  the 
staging  terrible.  It's  bound  to  turn  out  a 
fiasco!" 

"Mimi  knows  nothing  about  the  peasants 
and  her  imitation  of  their  dialect  is  ludicrous," 
remarked  Janina. 

"I  heard  her  and  it  pained  me  to  listen! 
Do  you  know  the  peasants?  Ah,  Great 
Scott ! "  he  cried  impulsively.  ' '  Why  don't  you 
act  that  role?  ..." 

"Because  they  didn't  give  it  to  me." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  that  sooner? 
May  the  deuce  take  me,  but  even  if  I  had  to 
smash  up  the  whole  theater  I  would  have 
forced  them  to  give  you  that  r61e!" 

"The  director  gave  me  the  part  of  Phillip's 
wife." 

"That's  merely  a  super,  an  episode  ...  it 
could  have  been  given  to  anyone.  I  feel  that 
Mimi  is  going  to  chatter  like  a  soubrette  from 
an  operetta.  See  what  you  have  caused  me! 


The  Comedienne  319 

By  glory,  what  a  mess!  If  you  think  that 
life  is  a  charming  operetta,  you  are  greatly 
mistaken!" 

"I  already  happen  to  know  something  about 
that  .  .  ."  answered  Janina  with  a  bitter 
smile. 

11  So  far  you  don't  know  anything  .  .  .  you 
will  learn  it  only  later  on.  But  after  all 
women  usually  have  an  easier  time  of  it.  We 
men  have  to  fight  hard  to  grasp  our  share  and 
have  to  pay  dearly.  God  knows  how  dearly." 

"Don't  you  think  the  women  pay  any- 
thing?" 

"It's  this  way:  women,  and  particularly 
those  on  the  stage,  owe  the  minimum  part  of 
their  success  to  their  talents  or  themselves; 
the  maximum  part  to  their  lovers  who  support 
them  and  the  rest  to  the  gallantry  of  those  men 
who  hope  to  be  able  to  support  them  some 
day." 

Janina  answered  nothing,  for  there  flashed 
before  her  mind  a  picture  of  Majkowska  with 
Topolski  in  back  of  her,  Mimi  with  Wawr- 
zecki,  Kaczkowska  with  one  of  the  journalists 
and  so  on  through  almost  all  of  them. 

11  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  merely  stated 
a  fact  that  came  to  my  mind." 


320  The  Comedienne 

"No.  I'm  not  angry.  I  admit  you're 
entirely  right." 

"With  you,  it  will  not  be  that  way,  I  feel  it. 
Come,  let  us  go  now!"  he  suddenly  cried, 
jumping  up  from  the  bench. 

"I  will  say  something  more  ..."  said 
Glogowski  when  they  were  already  walking 
down  the  shaded  paths  on  their  way  back,  ' '  I 
will  repeat  what  I  said  on  the  day  that  I  first 
met  you  at  Bielany;  let  us  be  friends!  .  .  .  It's 
no  use  trying  to  deny  it,  man  is  a  gregarious 
beast:  he  always  needs  someone  near  him  so 
that  his  lot  on  this  earth  may  be  half-way  bear- 
able ...  Man  does  not  stand  alone ;  he  must 
lean  against  and  link  up  with  others,  go  toge- 
ther with  them  and  feel  together  with  them  to 
be  able  to  accomplish  anything.  To  be  sure, 
one  kindred  soul  suffices.  Let  us  be  friends! " 

"All  right,"  said  Janina,  "but  I  will  lay 
down  one  condition." 

' '  Quick,  for  God's  sake !  For  perhaps  I  will 
not  accept  it!" 

"  It  is  this :  give  me  your  word  of  honor  that 
you  will  never,  never  speak  to  me  about  love, 
and  that  you  will  not  fall  in  love  with  me. 
You  can  even  confide  in  me,  if  you  wish,  all 
your  love  affairs  and  disappointments." 


The  Comedienne  321 

4 '  Agreed,  all  along  the  line !  I  seal  that  with 
my  solemn  word  of  honor!"  cried  Glogowski. 

They  gravely  pressed  each  others'  hands. 

"This  is  a  union  of  pure  souls  with  ideal 
aims ! "  he  laughed,  winking  his  eyes.  ' '  Some- 
thing makes  me  feel  so  merry  now  that  I  could 
take  my  own  head  in  my  hands  and  kiss  it 
heartily." 

"  It  is  a  premonition  of  the  triumph  of  your 
Churls." 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  that.  I  know  what 
awaits  me.  But  I  must  now  bid  farewell 
to  you." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  escort  me  home?" 

"No  ...  Oh  well,  all  right,  but  I  warn 
you  I  will  talk  to  you  about  .  .  .  love!"  he 
cried  gayly. 

"Well,  in  that  case,  good-by!  May  God 
preserve  you  from  such  falsehoods." 

"Your  ears  must  have  surfeited  on  that 
rubbish,  if  the  very  mention  of  it  nauseates 
you.  ..." 

"Go  now  if  you  wish  ...  I  will  tell  you 
about  it  some  other  time.  ..." 

Glogowski  leaped  into  a  hack  and  drove 
away  in  haste  toward  Comely  Street  and 
Janina  went  home. 


21 


322  The  Comedienne 

She  tried  on  the  peasant  costume  which 
Mme.  Anna  was  making  for  her  appearance 
and  thought  with  a  smile  of  the  alliance  that 
she  had  formed  with  Glogowski. 

At  the  theater  it  was  evident  that  a  premiere 
was  to  be  given.  All  the  members  of  the 
company  appeared  earlier,  dressed  and  made 
up  more  carefully  than  usual  and  only  Krzy- 
kiewicz,  as  was  his  custom,  paraded  about  the 
dressing-room  and  the  stage  half-dressed  with 
his  rouge  pot  in  his  hand. 

Stanislawski,  who  when  he  played,  usually 
came  about  two  hours  before  the  performance, 
was  already  dressed  and  only  now  and  then 
added  an  extra  touch  to  his  make-up. 

Wawrzecki,  with  his  role  in  his  hand  paced 
up  and  down  the  dressing-room  rehearsing  in 
an  undertone. 

The  stage- direct  or  ran  about  more  swiftly 
than  usual  and  in  the  ladies'  dressing-room 
livelier  quarrels  were  going  on.  Everyone 
was*  more  nervous  to-day.  The  prompter 
supervised  the  stage  arrangements  and 
watched  the  public  that  was  beginning  to  fill 
the  hall.  The  chorus  girls,  who  were  to  act  as 
supers,  were  already  dressed  in  their  peasant 
costumes  and  straggled  all  about  the  stage. 


The  Comedienne  323 


"Dobek!"  called  Majkowska.  "My  dear 
fellow,  only  support  me  well!  ...  I  know  my 
part,  but  in  the  second  act  slip  me  the  words 
of  that  monologue  a  little  louder." 

Dobek  nodded  his  head  and  had  not  yet 
returned  to  his  post  when  Glas  accosted  him. 

1 '  Dobek !  Will  you  have  a  drink  of  whisky, 
eh?  Perhaps  you'd  like  a  sandwich?  "  he  asked 
the  prompter  in  a  solicitous  tone. 

"To  the  sandwich  add  a  beer,"  answered 
Dobek,  smiling  blissfully. 

"My  good  fellow,  don't  fail  me!  I  really 
know  my  part  to-day,  but  I'm  likely  to  get 
stuck  here  and  there  ..." 

"Well,  well!  only  don't  lie  down  yourself 
and  you  can  be  sure  I  won't  let  you  perish." 

And  in  this  way,  every  other  minute  some 
actor  or  actress  would  approach  Dobek,  who 
solemnly  promised  to  "uphold"  them  all. 

"Dobek!  I  need  only  the  first  words  of 
each  line  .  .  .  remember!"  reminded  Topol- 
ski  at  the  very  last. 

Glogowski  strayed  about  the  stage,  himself 
set  up  the  interior  of  the  peasants'  hut,  gave 
instructions  to  the  actors  and  uneasily  scanned 
the  first  row  of  seats  occupied  by  the  represen- 
tatives of  the  press. 


324  The  Comedienne 

"It  will  be  warm  for  me  to-morrow!"  he 
whispered  to  himself,  and  began  to  walk 
about  feverishly,  for  he  was  unable  to  stand  or 
sit  still  in  one  spot.  Finally,  he  went  out  into 
the  garden-hall,  stood  leaning  against  a  chest- 
nut tree  and  watched  with  beating  heart  the 
first  act  of  his  play  which  had  just  begun. 

The  audience  sat  coldly  and  quietly  listening. 
An  oppressive  silence  filled  the  hall.  Glogow- 
ski  saw  hundreds  of  eyes  and  immovable 
heads,  he  even  saw  the  restaurant  waiters 
standing  on  chairs  beneath  the  veranda, 
watching  the  stage.  The  voices  of  the  actors 
resounded  distinctly,  floating  out  to  that 
dark,  densely  packed  mass  of  people. 

Glogowski  sat  down  in  the  darkest  corner 
behind  the  scenes  on  a  heap  of  decorations, 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  listened. 

Scene  followed  scene,  and  still  that  same 
ominous  silence  reigned.  Glogowski  was 
unable  to  sit  there  quietly!  He  heard  the 
baritone  voice  of  Topolski, .  the  soprano  of 
Majkowska  and  the  somewhat  hoarse  voice  of 
Glas,  but  it  was  not  that  which  he  wished  to 
hear.  Not  that!  He  bit  his  fingers  so  vio- 
lently that  tears  came  to  his  eyes  from  the 
pain. 


The  Comedienne  325 

The  first  act  ended. 

A  few  lukewarm  handclaps  broke  out  here 
and  there  and  died  away  again  in  the  general 
silence. 

Glogowski  sprang  up  and  with  craning  neck 
and  feverishly  gleaming  eyes  waited,  but  he 
heard  only  the  thump  of  the  falling  curtain  and 
the  buzz  of  voices  suddenly  rising  in  the  hall. 

During  the  intermission  he  again  observed 
the  public.  Their  faces  wore  a  strange  expres- 
sion. The  members  of  the  press  frowned,  and 
whispered  something  among  themselves,  while 
certain  of  them  made  notes. 

"I  feel  cold!"  whispered  Glogowski  to  him- 
self, shaking  as  though  with  an  icy  chill. 
And  he  began  to  stray  distractedly  all  about 
the  theater. 

"I  congratulate  you!"  said  Kotlicki,  press- 
ing Glogowski's  hand.  ' '  The  play  is  too  severe 
and  brutal,  but  it  is  something  new!" 

11  Which  means  neither  fish  nor  flesh!" 
answered  Glogowski  with  a  forced  smile. 

"We'll  see  how  it  will  be  further  on.  .  .  . 
The  public  is  surprised  to  see  a  folk  play  with- 
out dances.  ..." 

"What  the  devil  do  they  want!  It  is  not 
a  ballet!"  muttered  Glogowski  impatiently. 


326  The  Comedienne 

• 

"But  you  know  they  dote  on  songs  and 
dances." 

"Then  let  them  go  to  a  vaudeville  show!" 
retorted  Glogowski.  And  he  walked  away. 

After  the  second  act  the  applause  was  louder 
and  more  prolonged. 

In  the  dressing-rooms  the  humor  of  the 
actors  began  to  rise  to  its  usual  level. 

Cabinski  had  already  twice  sent  Wicek  to 
the  box  office  to  find  out  how  things  were 
going  there.  Gold's  first  reply  was:  "Good," 
and  his  second:  "Sold  out." 

Glogowski  continued  to  torment  himself, 
but  now  in  a  different  way,  for  having  heard 
the  applause  for  which  he  had  so  feverishly 
waited,  he  had  calmed  himself  a  bit  and  sat 
behind  the  scenes  watching  the  play.  Now  he 
became  pale  with  anger,  kicked  his  hat  with 
his  foot  and  hissed  with  impatience,  for  he 
could  no  longer  endure  what  he  saw.  Out  of 
his  peasant  characters,  which  were  in  every 
inch  true  to  life,  they  were  making  banal 
figures  of  the  sentimental  melodrama,  puppets 
dressed  in  folk  costumes.  The  playing  of 
the  men  actors  was  at  least  to  some  extent 
bearable,  but  the  women,  with  the  exception 
of  Majkowska  and  Mirowska,  who  acted  the 


The  Comedienne  327 

part  of  an  old  beggar  woman,  played  abomin- 
ably. Instead  of  speaking  their  parts,  they 
rattled  them  off  in  a  singsong  voice,  and  over- 
emphasized hatred,  love,  and  laughter.  Every- 
thing was  done  so  mechanically,  artifically, 
and  thoughtlessly,  without  a  grain  of  truth  or 
sincerity  that  Glogowski  fairly  choked  with 
despair.  It  was  merely  a  masquerade. 

"Sharper!  More  energetically!"  he  whis- 
pered, stamping  his  foot,  but  no  one  paid  any 
attention  to  his  exhortations. 

Suddenly,  a  smile  flitted  over  his  lips,  for 
he  saw  Janina  entering  the  stage.  She  caught 
that  smile  and  that  saved  her,  for  her  voice  had 
died  in  her  breast.  She  was  trembling  from 
stage  fright  so  that  she  did  not  see  the  stage, 
nor  the  actors,  nor  the  public;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  engulfed  in  a  sea  of  light.  When 
she  saw  that  friendly  smile  she  immediately 
recovered  her  calm  and  courage. 

Janina  was  merely  to  grasp  a  broom,  take 
her  drunken  husband  by  the  collar,  shout  a 
few  lines  of  imprecation  and  complaint  and 
then  drag  him  out  forcibly  through  the  door. 
She  did  all  this  a  trifle  too  violently,  but  with 
such  realism  that  she  gave  the  impression  of 
an  infuriated  peasant  woman. 


328  The  Comedienne 

Glogowski  went  to  Janina.  She  stood  on 
the  stairs  leading  to  the  dressing-room;  her 
eyes  beamed  with  a  certain  deep  satisfaction. 

"Very  good!  .  .  .  that  was  a  real  peasant 
woman.  You  have  a  temperament  and  a  voice 
and  those  are  two  first-rate  endowments!" 
said  Glogowski,  and  tip-toed  back  to  his  seat. 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  give  an  encore  of  that 
scene?"  whispered  Cabinski  into  his  ear. 

"Dry  up  and  go  to  the  devil!"  answered 
Glogowski  in  the  same  quiet  whisper  and  felt 
a  great  desire  to  strike  Cabinski.  But  just 
then,  a  new  thought  occurred  to  his  mind,  for 
he  saw  the  nurse  standing  nearby. 

"Nurse!"  he  called  to  her. 

The  nurse  unwillingly  approached  Glogow- 
ski. 

"Tell  me,  nurse,  what  do  you  think  of  that 
comedy?"  he  asked  her  curiously. 

"The  title  is  very  unpolitic  .  .  .'churls'! 
Everyone  knows  that  peasants  are  not  nobles, 
but  to  call  them  by  such  a  scornful  name  for 
the  amusement  of  others  is  a  downright  sin!" 

"Well,  that  is  of  minor  importance  .  .  . 
but  do  you  think  those  characters  resemble 
real  peasants?" 

"Yes,  you  have  hit  upon  the  real  thing 


The  Comedienne  329 

Peasants  are  just  like  that,  only  they  don't 
dress  so  elegantly,  nor  are  they  so  refined  in 
their  bearing  and  speech.  But  pardon  me, 
sir,  if  I  say  one  thing;  what's  the  use  of  it  all? 
Present,  if  you  wish,  nobles,  Jews,  or  any  other 
kind  of  ragamuffins,  but  to  make  a  laughing- 
stock and  a  comedy  of  honest  tillers  of  the  soil 
is  a  downright  shame !  God  is  like  to  punish 
you  for  such  frivolity!  A  husbandman  is  a 
husbandman  .  .  .  beware  of  trifling  with 
him!"  she  added  in  conclusion  and  continued 
to  gaze  at  the  stage  with  an  ever  greater 
severity  and  almost  with  tears  of  indignation 
in  her  eyes. 

Glogowski  had  no  time  to  wonder  at  her 
attitude  for  just  then  the  third  act  ended  amid 
thunderous  applause  and  calls  for  the  author, 
but  he  did  not  go  out  to  bow. 

A  few  journalists  came  to  shake  hands  with 
him  and  praise  his  play.  He  listened  to  them 
indifferently,  for  already  his  mind  was  occu- 
pied with  a  plan  for  remaking  that  play.  Now 
first  did  he  see  in  detail  its  various  incon- 
sistencies and  the  things  that  were  lacking, 
and  immediately  completed  them  in  his  mind, 
added  new  scenes,  changed  about  situations 
and  was  so  absorbed  with  his  task  that  he  no 


330  The  Comedienne 

longer  paid  any  attention  to  how  they  were 
playing  the  fourth  act. 

Again  applause  filled  the  entire  hall  and  the 
unanimous  cry  of :  "  Author !  Author ! '  * 

"They're  calling  for  you,  go  out  to  them," 
someone  whispered  into  Glogowski's  ear. 

"The  deuce  I  will!  Go  to  the  devil,  sweet 
brother!" 

Majkowska  and  Topolski  were  also  being 
recalled. 

Majkowska,  all  breathless,  ran  up  to 
Glogowski. 

"Mr.  Glogowski!  come,  hurry!"  she  cried, 
taking  him  by  the  hand. 

"Let  me  alone!"  he  growled  threateningly. 

Majkowska  left  him  and  Glogowski  sat 
there  and  continued  to  think.  Neither  the 
applause,  nor  the  demands  for  his  appearance 
nor  the  success  of  his  play  interested  him  any 
longer,  for  he  was  sorely  worried  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  his  play  was  entirely  bad.  He  saw 
its  defects  ever  more  plainly  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  another  one  of  his  efforts  had  proved 
vain  made  him  writhe  with  pain.  With 
helpless  rage  he  listened  to  the  public  applaud- 
ing the  rude  and  characteristically  comic 
episodes  which  were  merely  the  background 


The  Comedienne  33 1 

upon  which  the  souls  of  his  Churls  had  to 
be  outlined,  while  the  theme  and  thesis  of 
the  play  itself  passed  without  making  any 
impression. 

"Mr.  Glogowski  I  want  you  to  go  out  after 
the  fifth  act  if  they  call  for  you,"  Janina 
said  to  him  decisively. 

"But  please  consider,  who  is  calling  for  me! 
Don't  you  see  that  it  is  the  gallery?  Don't 
you  see  the  smiles  of  derision  upon  the  faces 
of  the  press  and  the  public  in  the  first  rows  of 
seats?  I  tell  you  the  play  is  bad,  abominable 
and  rotten!  Wait  and  see  what  they  will 
write  about  it  to-morrow." 

"What  will  happen  to-morrow  we  shall  see 
to-morrow.  To-day  there  is  success  and  your 
splendid  play." 

"Splendid!"  he  cried  painfully.  "If  you 
could  see  the  plan  of  it  that  I  have  here  in  my 
head,  if  you  could  see  how  splendid  and  com- 
plete it  is  here,  you  would  know  that  what 
they  are  playing  is  merely  a  poor  rag  and  a 
fragment." 

Immediately  afterwards  Cabinski,  Topolski, 
and  Kotlicki  approached  Glogowski  and  urged 
him  to  appear  before  the  public,  but  still  he 
resisted.  Only  at  the  end  of  the  play  when 


332  The  Comedienne 

the  entire  audience  was  wildly  applauding  and 
calling  for  the  author,  Glogowski  went  out  on 
the  stage  with  Majkowska,  bowed  osten- 
tatiously, smoothed  his  shock  of  hair  and 
clumsily  retreated  behind  the  scenes. 

"If  the  play  had  dances,  songs,  and  music, 
I  wager  it  would  run  to  the  end  of  the  season," 
said  Cabinski. 

"Dry  up,  or  drink  yourself  to  death,  but  do 
not  tell  me  such  nonsense,"  shouted  Glogow- 
ski. "The  next  thing  you  know,  the  restau- 
rant-keeper will  come  running  in  here  and 
begin  to  berate  me  because  for  the  same 
reasons  he  sold  less  beer  and  whiskey ;  a  public 
that  must  listen  and  laughs  seldom  prefers 
hot  tea." 

"But  my  dear  sir,  nobody  writes  plays  for 
himself,  he  writes  them  for  other  human 
beings." 

"Yes,  for  human  beings,  but  not  for  Zulus," 
retorted  Glogowski. 

Kotlicki  again  approached  Glogowski  and 
spoke  to  him  for  a  long  while.  Glogowski 
frowned  and  said:  "First  of  all,  I  haven't 
the  money  for  it,  for  it  would  cost  a 
great  deal  and,  in  the  second  place,  I  am  not 
at  all  anxious  to  be  'one  of  our  well-known 


The  Comedienne  333 

and  celebrated,'  for  that  is  a  prostitution  of 
one's  talent!" 

"I  can  be  of  service  to  you  with  my  funds, 
if  you  wish.  ...  I  presume  that  our  old  ties 
of  companionship  at  school  ..." 

"Let  us  drop  that!  ..."  Glogowski  vio- 
lently interrupted  him.  "But  that  has  given 
me  a  certain  idea  .  .  .  Suppose  we  arrange  a 
little  supper,  but  only  for  a  few  persons,  eh?" 

"Good!  we  will  draw  up  a  list  right  away; 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cabinski,  Majkowska  and 
Topolski,  Mimi  and  Wawrzecki  and  Glas,  as 
an  entertainer,  of  course.  Whom  else  shall 
we  include?" 

Kotlicki  wished  to  suggest  Janina,  but  was 
restrained  from  saying  so  openly. 

"Aha!  I  know  .  .  .  Miss  Orlowska  .  .  . 
the  Filipka  of  my  play!  Did  you  see  how 
superbly  she  acted  the  part?" 

"Indeed,  she  played  it  well  ..."  answered 
Kotlicki,  glancing  suspiciously  at  Glogowski, 
for  he  thought  that  he  also  had  designs  upon 
Janina. 

"Go  and  invite  them.  I  will  come  right 
away." 

Kotlicki  went  out  into  the  restaurant  garden, 
while  Glogowski  hurried  upstairs  to  the  chorus 


334  The  Comedienne 

dressing-room  and  called  through  the  door: 
"MissOrlowska!" 

Janina  peered  out. 

"Please  hurry  and  get  dressed  for  the  whole 
crowd  of  us  is  going  out  for  supper  and  you 
can't  refuse." 

About  a  half  hour  later  they  were  all  sitting 
in  a  room  of  one  of  the  large  restaurants  on 
Nowy  Swiat. 

The  whiskey  and  lunch  were  attacked  ener- 
getically for  the  nervous  strain  of  the  last  few 
hours  had  sharpened  everybody's  appetite. 
They  spoke  little,  but  drank  a  great  deal. 

Janina  did  not  wish  to  drink,  but  Glogowski 
begged  her  and  cried  out:  "You  must  drink 
and  that  settles  it.  You  must  drink,  if  only  to 
celebrate  such  an  honorable  burial  as  we  have 
held  to-day." 

She  drank  one  glass  on  trial,  but  afterwards 
was  forced  to  drink  others;  moreover,  she  felt 
that  it  helped  her,  for  she  had  not  yet  rid  her- 
self of  stage  nervousness  and  was  trembling 
about  the  fate  of  the  play. 

After  various  courses  had  been  served,  the 
waiters  placed  on  the  table  a  whole  battery  of 
bottles  full  of  wines  and  liqueurs. 

"Now  we'll  have  something  to  fight  with!" 


The  Comedienne  335 

cried  Glas  jovially,  tinkling  a  bottle  with  his 
knife. 

"You  will  fall  a  victim  to  your  own  triumph, 
if  you  continue  to  attack  with  the  same 
fervor,"  laughed  Wawrzecki. 

"You  people  can  talk,  while  we  drink!" 
called  Kotlicki,  raising  his  glass.  "Here's  to 
the  health  of  our  author!" 

"May  you  choke,  you  Zulu!"  growled 
Glogowski,  rising  and  touching  glasses  with 
everybody. 

' '  May  he  live  long  and  write  a  new  master- 
piece each  year ! "  cried  Cabinski,  already  quite 
tipsy. 

"You,  Director,  also  create  masterpieces 
almost  every  year,  yet  no  one  upbraids  you 
for  it,"  jested  Glas. 

"With  the  help  of  God  and  man,  gentlemen, 
yes,  yes!"  answered  Cabinski. 

Mimi  burst  out  laughing  and  all  joined  her. 

"Come  let  me  hug  you!  For  once  you  do 
not  lie!"  cried  Glas. 

Pepa  almost  died  laughing. 

"Here's  to  the  health  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Director!"  called  Wawrzecki. 

"May  they  live  long  and  with  the  help  of 
God  and  man  create  more  masterpieces! " 


336  The  Comedienne 

"Here's  to  the  health  of  the  whole  com- 
pany!" 

' '  And  now  let  us  drink  to  the  public. ' ' 

"Permit  me  to  interrupt  you  a  moment. 
Since  I  alone  here  represent  the  public,  there- 
fore render  homage  to  me.  Approach  me 
with  respect  and  drink  to  me.  You  may  even 
kiss  me  and  ask  me  for  some  favor.  I  will 
consider  your  request  and  bestow  whatever  I 
am  able  to!"  cried  Kotlicki  gleefully. 

He  took  a  glass  from  the  table,  stood  before 
a  mirror  and  waited. 

"Can  you  beat  that  for  conceit!  I  will  be 
the  first  to  undergo  the  ordeal!"  cried  Glo- 
gowski,  and  with  brimming  glass,  already  a 
bit  wobbly  on  his  pins  he  approached 
Kotlicki. 

" Most  esteemed  and  gracious  lady!  I  give 
you  plays  written  with  my  heart's  blood;  only 
understand  and  value  them  justly!"  he  de- 
claimed with  mock  pathos,  kissing  Kotlicki 's 
face. 

"If  you,  oh  master,  will  write  them  for  me, 
if  you  will  not  offend  me  with  brutalities,  if 
you  will  reckon  with  me  and  write  for  me  alone 
so  that  I  can  enjoy  and  entertain  myself,  then 
I  will  give  you  success!" 


The  Comedienne  337 

"First  I  will  kick  you  and  may  you  croak! " 
hissed  Glogowski  bitterly. 

Cabinski  approached  next. 

"Most  esteemed  public!  You  are  the  sun, 
you  are  beauty,  you  are  omnipotence,  you  are 
wisdom,  you  are  the  highest  judge!  Yours 
are  these  children  of  Melpomene  and  for  you 
do  they  live,  play,  and  sing!  Tell  me,  oh 
mighty  lady,  why  are  you  not  kind  to  us?  I 
entreat  you,  oh  enlightened  one,  give  us  each 
day  a  full  theater!" 

11  My  dear!  Have  a  little  money  when  you 
come  to  Warsaw,  have  a  large  repertoire,  a 
select  company,  beautiful  choruses  and  give 
those  plays  which  I  like  and  your  treasury  will 
be  bursting  with  gold." 

"Esteemed  public ! "  cried  Glas,  with  a  comi- 
cal pathos,  kissing  Kotlicki's  beard. 

"Speak!"  said  Kotlicki. 

' '  Esteemed  female !  Give  me  some  money  and 
then  have  your  head  shaved,  a  yellow  jacket  put 
on  you  and  green  paper  pasted  about  you  and 
we  will  see  that  you  are  sent  where  you  belong." 

"I  can't  promise  you  money,  but  I  assure 
you,  you'll  get  .  .  .  delirium  tremens,  my  son 
.  .  ."  answered  Kotlicki! 

"Topolski,  it's  your  turn!" 


338  The  Comedienne 

"Give  me  a  rest!  I  have  enough  of  your 
puppet  shows." 

Cabinska  also  did  not  wish  to  take  part  in 
the  amusement,  but  Mimi  bowed  comically 
and  stroked  Kotlicki's  face. 

"My  dear!  my  precious  public!"  she 
entreated  in  caressing  tones.  "Keep  Wladek 
from  continually  falling  in  love  with  some  new 
charmer  and  .  .  .  see,  I  could  make  use  of 
a  bracelet,  then  a  green  suit  for  the  fall,  some 
furs  for  the  winter  and  .  .  .  see  that  the 
director  pays  me  my  salary." 

"You  will  get  what  you  wish,  for  you  desired 
it  sincerely,  and  here  is  the  address." 

He  handed  her  his  visiting  card. 

"Fine!     Bravo!"   cried  the  company. 

"Miss  Majkowska  may  now  approach,  for 
I  promise  her  a  great  deal  in  advance," 
announced  Kotlicki. 

"You  are  an  old  deceiver,  dear  public! 
You  promise  continually,  but  you  never  give 
me  what  you  promise!"  said  Mela. 

' '  I  will  give  you  .  .  .  in  a  year  from  now  a 
d6but  at  the  Warsaw  Theater  and  surely 
engage  you." 

Majkowska  shrugged  her  shoulders  indiffer- 
ently and  sat  down. 


The  Comedienne  339 

"Miss  Orlowska!" 

Janina  arose;  she  felt  a  trifle  dizzy  but  at  the 
same  time  she  was  so  jolly  and  the  game 
appeared  so  comical  to  her,  that  she 
approached  Kotlicki  and  called  out  in  an 
entreating  tone:  "I  desire  only  one  thing:  to 
be  able  to  play.  I  ask  only  to  be  given  roles." 

"We  shall  speak  about  that  with  the  di- 
rector and  you  will  get  them." 

"Let  us  quit  that,  for  it  is  getting  weari- 
some, Kotlicki!  Come  over  here,  we  are 
starting  the  second  round  of  drinks." 

They  began  to  drink  in  earnest.  The  room 
became  full  of  buzzing  voices  and  cigarette 
smoke.  Each  of  the  assembled  company  argued 
and  persuaded  separately,  and  everyone 
shouted  nonsense. 

Majkowska  leaned  with  her  elbows  upon 
the  table  and,  beating  time  with  a  knife  against 
a  bottle  of  champagne,  sang  gayly. 

The  directress  argued  loudly  with  Mimi. 
Topolski  was  silent  and  drank  to  himself 
alone.  Wawrzecki  was  relating  various  funny 
anecdotes  to  Janina,  while  Glogowski,  Glas, 
and  Kotlicki  were  engaged  in  a  controversy 
about  the  public. 

Janina  laughed  and  bickered  with  Wawr- 


34°  The  Comedienne 

zecki,  but  already  the  wine  had  taken  such  an 
effect  upon  her  that  she  hardly  knew  what 
she  was  doing.  The  room  whirled  around 
with  her  and  the  candles  elongated  them- 
selves to  the  size  of  torches.  Once  she  would 
feel  a  mad  desire  to  dance,  then  again  to 
launch  bottles  like  ducks  into  the  large  mirrors 
which  appeared  to  be  water  to  her;  or  again, 
she  tried  hard  to  understand  what  Glogowski 
was  just  then  saying.  Glogowski,  all  flushed 
and  tipsy,  with  disheveled  hair  and  with  his 
necktie  on  his  back,  was  shouting,  waving  his 
hands,  striking  his  fist  against  Glas's  stomach 
instead  of  the  table. 

Glogowski  shouted  on:  "To  the  dogs  with 
the  public's  judgment!  I  tell  you  the  play 
is  bad !  And  if  the  audience  applauded  it  and 
you  now  praise  it,  that  is  the  best  proof  that  I 
am  right.  There  were  a  thousand  of  you;  it 
is  so  hard  for  a  thousand  people  to  agree  upon 
the  truth.  The  individual  alone  is  a  thinking 
man,  but  the  multitude  is  an  ignorant  herd 
that  knows  nothing." 

"The  multitude  is  a  great  man,  proclaims 
an  old  proverb,"  whispered  Kotlicki  senten- 
tiously. 

"It  proclaims  nonsense!     The  multitude  is 


The  Comedienne  341 

nothing  but  a  big  noise,  a  big  illusion,  a  big 
hallucination,"  retorted  Glogowski. 

"Master,  you  seem  to  be  devilishly  sure  of 
yourself." 

"  Dilettante,  I  merely  know  myself." 

"By  ginger!  so  many  crazes  in  such  a  weak 
box!"  whispered  Glas,  feeling  Glogowski's 
chest. 

"Genius  does  not  abide  in  meat.  A  fat 
man  is  merely  a  fat  animal.  A  lofty  soul 
abhors  fat.  A  healthy  stomach  and  normality 
denote  merely  the  average  mortal  and  the 
average  mortal  is  nothing  but  a  boor." 

"And  such  paradoxes  are  merely  chaff." 

"For  asses  and  pseudo-intelligents'a" 

"Dixit,  brother!  The  Rhenish  speaks 
through  your  lips." 

"Begin  all  over  again!"  interrupted  Glas, 
grabbing  them  both  around  the  neck. 

"  If  it  is  to  drink,  good ;  if  it  is  to  talk,  I'll  say 
good  night!"  yelled  Kotlicki. 

"Then  let  us  drink!" 

"Wawrzecki,  dog's  face!  Get  Mimi  and 
another  girl  and  we'll  arrange  a  little  chorus." 

They  immediately  got  together  and  intoned 
a  gay  song.  Only  Glogowski  did  not  sing, 
for  he  leaned  against  Cabinski  and  fell  fast 


342  The  Comedienne 

asleep  and  Janina's  head  was  so  heavy  that 
she  could  not  utter  a  single  tone. 

The  singing  continued  with  increasing  gay- 
ety,  while  Janina  felt  an  irresistible  drowsiness 
overpowering  her,  felt  herself  reeling  from  her 
chair. 

Later  she  was  half-conscious  of  someone 
supporting  her,  covering  her,  leading  her  and 
felt  that  she  was  riding  in  a  hack.  She  felt 
something  near  her  which  she  could  not  make 
out,  felt  a  hot  breath  on  her  face,  and  arms 
stealing  about  her  waist ;  she  heard  the  rumble 
of  wheels  and  with  difficulty  distinguished  a 
voice  whispering  into  her  ear: — "I  love  you,  I 
love  you! "  but  she  could  not  understand  what 
it  all  meant. 

Suddenly  she  trembled,  for  she  felt  hot 
kisses  upon  her  mouth.  She  sprang  up  vio- 
lently and  recovered  her  senses. 

Kotlicki  was  sitting  beside  her,  holding  her 
about  the  waist  and  kissing  her.  She  wanted 
to  shove  him  away  from  her,  but  her  hands 
dropped  heavily  to  her  side;  she  wanted  to 
scream  out  loud,  but  had  no  strength  left; 
drowsiness  overpowered  her  again  and  threw 
her  into  a  lethargy,  as  it  were. 

Finally,  the  hack  stopped  and  the  sudden 


The  Comedienne  343 

silence  awakened  her.  She  saw  that  she  was 
standing  on  the  sidewalk  and  that  Kotlicki 
was  ringing  the  doorbell  of  some  house. 

''God!  God!"  she  whispered  in  bewilder- 
ment, unable  to  understand  where  she  was. 

Only  then  did  Janina  realize  everything  in  a 
flash  when  Kotlicki  drew  close  to  her  and 
whispered  sweetly:  "Come!" 

She  tore  herself  away  from  him  with  the 
force  of  great  fear.  He  tried  to  put  his  arm 
about  her  again  but  she  shoved  him  back  with 
such  violence  that  he  went  hurtling  against  the 
wall  and  then  she  ran  as  though  bereft  of  her 
senses,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  pur- 
suing, that  he  was  already  catching  up  with 
her  and  ready  to  seize  her.  Her  heart  beat 
like  a  trip  hammer  and  her  face  burned  with 
shame  and  terror. 

"God!  God!"  she  breathed,  running  ever 
faster. 

The  streets  were  deserted  and  she  was 
frightened  by  the  sound  of  her  own  footsteps, 
by  the  hacks  that  she  met  at  the  street  corners, 
by  the  shadows  that  fell  from  the  house  walls 
and  by  that  awful  stony  silence  of  the  sleeping 
city  in  which  there  seemed  to  tremble  sounds 
of  weeping,  sobs,  and  some  horrible,  dissolute 


344  The  Comedienne 

laughter  and  drunken  cries  that  made  her 
shudder.  She  paused  in  the  shadow  of  a  door- 
way, looked  about  her  in  terror,  and  gradually 
remembered  all  that  had  happened :  the  play, 
the  supper,  how  she  had  drunk,  the  singing  and 
how  someone  was  again  forcing  her  to  drink; 
and  amid  all  those  confused  fragments  of  her 
memory  there  apeared  the  long  equine  face  of 
KotHcki,  the  ride  in  the  hack,  and  his  kisses! 

''The  vile  wretch!  The  vile  wretch!"  she 
whispered  to  herself,  recovering  herself  entire- 
ly; and  she  clenched  her  fists  until  the  nails 
dug  into  her  flesh,  so  violent  a  wave  of  anger 
and  hatred  surged  through  her.  She  was 
choking  with  tears  of  helplessness  and  such 
humiliation  that  she  sobbed  spasmodically  as 
she  returned  home. 

It  was  already  dawning. 

Sowinska  opened  the  door  for  her  and 
grumbled  in  irritation:  "You  should  have 
come  home  earlier,  instead  of  waking  people 
at  this  hour  of  the  night." 

Janina  did  not  answer,  bowing  her  head  as 
under  a  blow. 

' '  The  base  wretches !  The  base  wretches ! ' ' 
That  was  the  one  cry  that  arose  in  her  heart, 
filled  with  rebellion  and  hatred. 


The  Comedienne  345 

Janina  no  longer  felt  the  shame  and  the 
humiliation,  but  only  a  boundless  rage.  She 
ran  about  the  room  as  though  she  were  mad, 
unknowingly  ripped  her  waist  and,  unable  to 
control  her  fury,  fell  exhausted  upon  her  bed 
with  her  clothes  on. 

Her  sleep  was  one  dreadful  torment.  She 
sprang  up  every  minute  with  a  cry  as  though 
to  run  away,  then  again,  she  raised  her  hand 
as  though  with  a  glass  full  of  wine  and  shouted 
through  her  sleep:  Vive!  She  would  begin 
to  sing  or  to  cry  every  now  and  then  with  her 
feverish  lips:  "The  base  wretches!  The  base 
wretches!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  a  few  days  after  the  premiere  of  The 
Churls,  which  remained  upon  the  bill,  but 
attracted  ever  smaller  audiences,  Glogowski 
came  to  Janina's  home. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  .  .  .?"  she 
exclaimed,  extending  her  hand  in  friendly 
greeting. 

"Nothing.  .  .  .  Well,  I  improved  my  play 
a  little.  Did  you  read  the  criticisms?  " 

"Some  of  them." 

"I  have  brought  all  the  reviews,"  said 
Glogowski.  " I'll  read  them." 

He  began  to  read. 

One  of  the  important  weeklies  maintained 
that  The  Churls  was  a  very  good,  original,  and 
superbly  realistic  play;  that  with  Glogowski 
there  had,  at  last,  appeared  a  real  dramatist 
who  had  let  a  current  of  fresh  air  into  the 
stagnant  and  anaemic  atmosphere  of  our 
dramatic  creativity,  and  had  given  us  real 
people  and  real  life.  The  only  cause  for  regret 

346 


The  Comedienne  347 

was  that  the  staging  of  the  play  was  beneath 
criticism  and  the  acting  of  it,  with  one  or  two 
exceptions,  scandalous. 

The  reviewer  of  one  of  the  most  estimable 
dailies  for  two  whole  days  rambled  on  in  a 
special  supplement  about  the  history  of  the 
theater  in  France  and  about  German  actors, 
he  discussed  theatrical  novelties  and  after 
every  two  paragraphs  or  so  would  remark  in 
parenthesis:  "I  saw  him  at  the  Odeon,"  "I 
heard  this  at  the  Burg  Theater"  "I  admired 
such  acting  in  London,"  etc.  Then  he  ad- 
duced various  theatrical  anecdotes,  praised 
actors  who  had  died  half  a  century  ago,  harked 
back  to  the  past  of  the  stage,  spoke  in  several 
paragraphs  about  the  red  rags  of  radicalism 
that  had  begun  to  appear  on  the  stage,  praised 
with  paternal  indulgence  the  actors  appearing 
in  The  Churls,  flattered  Cabinski  and  wound 
up  by  saying  that  he  would  probably  give  his 
opinion  of  the  play  itself  only  after  the  author 
had  written  another  one,  for  this  one  was 
merely  to  be  forgiven  a  novice. 

A  third  reviewer  contended  that  the  play 
was  not  at  all  bad  and  would  even  be  excellent, 
if  the  author  had  chosen  to  honor  theatrical 
traditions  and  added  music  and  dances  to  it. 


348  The  Comedienne 

A  fourth  took  a  diametrically  opposite  view- 
point, maintaining  that  the  play  was  positively 
worthless,  that  it  was  rubbish,  but  that  the 
author  possessed  at  least  the  one  merit  that 
he  had  avoided  the  cut  and  dried  formulas  by 
failing  to  introduce  the  usual  songs  and  dances 
which  always  lower  the  value  of  folk  plays. 

In  the  fifth  review  a  "specialist "  on  garden- 
theaters  wrote  about  a  hundred  paragraphs 
somewhat  to  this  effect:  "  The  Churls  by  Mr. 
Glogowski — hm!  .  .  .  not  a  bad  thing  .  .  . 
it  would  even  be  entirely  good  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 
although,  considering  again  ...  at  any  rate 
.  .  .  one  must  have  the  courage  to  tell  the 
truth.  ...  At  all  events  ...  be  that  as  it 
may  .  .  .  (with  a  little  qualifying  phrase)  the 
author  has  a  talent.  The  play  is  ...  hm 
...  let  us  see,  how  can  we  define  it?  About 
two  months  ago  I  wrote  something  about  it,  so 
I  refer  those  that  are  interested  to  my  former 
article.  .  .  .  They  played  it  excellently," — 
and  he  enumerated  the  entire  cast,  placing 
beside  the  name  of  each  actress  a  sugary  epi- 
thet, and  an  ingratiating  remark,  a  polite 
description,  a  melancholy  equivocation  and 
an  empty  phrase. 

"  What  do  you  call  all  that?  "  inquired  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  349 

"A  libretto  for  an  operetta.  Entitle  it 
Theatrical  Criticisms  and  set  it  to  music  and 
you  will  have  such  a  show  that  the  whole 
nation  will  flock  to  it  as  to  a  church  festival." 

"And  what  answer  did  you  give  to  all 
that?" 

"I?  .  .  .  Nothing,  of  course!  I  merely 
turned  my  back  on  them  and,  since  I  have  a 
splendid  plan  for  a  new  play,  I  shall  immedi- 
ately start  working  on  it.  I  have  received  a 
job  as  a  dramatic  coach  at  Radomsk  and  I 
shall  go  there  for  a  half  year.  I  am  only 
waiting  for  the  final  notification." 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to  go?" 

"Yes,  I  must!  Dramatic  coaching  is  my 
only  means  of  support.  For  two  months  I 
have  been  without  any  occupation  and  now  I 
am  penniless.  I  presented  the  play  at  my  own 
expense,  paid  my  respects  to  the  public,  had  a 
good  time  at  Warsaw  and  now  it  is  time  to 
quit!  It  is  time  to  ring  down  the  curtain  so 
that  I  may  prepare  for  another  farce.  Good- 
bye, Miss  Janina.  Before  I  leave,  I'll  drop  in 
here  or  at  the  theater." 

He  shook  hands  with  her,  exclaimed,  "May 
the  deuce  take  me!"  and  hurried  away. 

Janina  was  sad.     She  had  become  so  accus- 


35°  The  Comedienne 

tomed  to  Glogowski,  to  his  eccentricities, 
paradoxes,  and  to  that  rough  and  ready  man- 
ner which  was  merely  a  screen  for  his  shyness 
and  hypersensitive  delicacy  that  regret  filled 
her  at  the  thought  that  she  was  now  to  remain 
alone. 

She  had  no  more  money  left  and  was  living 
solely  on  what  she  received  at  the  theater. 
Janina  dared  not  admit  it  to  herself,  but  with 
each  new  request  for  money  she  would  be 
reminded  of  her  home  and  of  those  times  when 
it  was  unnecessary  for  her  to  think  of  any- 
thing, for  she  had  all  she  needed.  She  felt 
deeply  humiliated  by  this  almost  daily  begging 
for  a  few  meager  copecks,  but  there  was  no 
way  out  of  it,  unless  it  was  the  one  that  she 
constantly  read  in  the  gray  eyes  of  Sowin- 
ska  and  saw  exemplified  in  the  life  of  her 
companions. 

Almost  each  evening  Janina  would  stroll  on 
Theater  Place.  If  she  was  in  a  great  hurry, 
she  would  only  pass  through  the  place,  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  Grand  Theater  and  return  home 
again,  but  if  she  had  plenty  of  time  she  would 
find  a  seat  on  the  square  or  on  a  bench  near 
the  tramcar  station  and  from  there  gaze  at 
the  rows  of  columns,  at  the  lofty  profile  of  the 


The  Comedienne  35 I 

theater's  fagade  and  lose  herself  in  dreaming. 
She  somehow  felt  that  those  walls  drew  her 
irresistibly  to  them.  She  experienced  mo- 
ments of  deep  delight  when  passing  under  the 
colonnade,  or  when  in  the  calm  of  a  bright 
night  she  viewed  the  long  gray  mass  of  the 
edifice.  That  huge  stone  giant  seemed  to 
speak  to  her  and  she  would  listen  to  the  whis- 
pers, the  echoes,  and  the  sounds  that  floated 
from  it.  Spread  out  before  her  in  the  dim 
twilight  and  visible  to  her  soul  alone,  there 
would  pass  before  her  imagination  the  scenes 
that  were  acted  there  not  long  ago. 

An  additional  reason  for  losing  herself  in 
dreams  was  to  dull  the  pinch  of  poverty,  that 
had  become  more  acute,  for  the  second  half  of 
the  theatrical  season,  from  a  financial  stand- 
point, was  a  great  deal  worse  than  the  first. 
The  attendance  was  increasingly  smaller 
because  of  the  continual  rains  and  the  cold 
evenings  and,  of  course,  the  pay  of  the  actors 
was  proportionately  smaller. 

It  often  happened  that  Cabinski  in  the 
middle  of  a  performance  would  take  the  cash 
box  and  make  away  with  it  under  the  pretext 
that  he  was  ill,  leaving  only  a  few  rubles  to 
be  divided  among  the  company  and,  if  he  was 


352  The  Comedienne 

caught  before  he  made  his  escape,  he  would 
almost  cry. 

And  if  he  led  anyone  by  the  arm  in  a  friendly 
manner  to  the  box  office  it  was  a  prearranged 
sign  for  Gold,  who  was  to  say  that  there  was 
no  money  to  be  had.  If  he  did  not  lead  a 
person  in  this  manner,  the  treasurer  would 
assume  a  worried  look  and  complain:  "I 
haven't  even  enough  to  pay  the  gas  bills  and 
where  am  I  going  to  get  the  money  for  the 
rent?  Why,  there  isn't  enough  to  pay  running 
expenses." 

"  Let  him  have  at  least  something.  Perhaps 
we  can  put  off  the  payment  of  some  bill  to-day 
.  .  ."  Cabinski  would  pretend  to  intercede. 

He  would  then  leave  an  order  for  the  pay- 
ment of  the  money  and  walk  away.  But  it 
almost  always  so  happened  that  Gold  did  not 
have  the  sum  for  which  the  order  was  made 
out.  The  amount  paid  was  always  short, 
even  if  it  were  only  by  a  few  copecks.  The 
actors  called  him  all  sorts  of  names,  but  each 
took  what  was  offered. 

Gold  pretended  to  be  insulted  and  usually 
appealed  to  the  directress,  who  would  always 
sit  in  the  box  office  whenever  she  was  not 
taking  part  in  the  play.  Cabinska  would  then 


The  Comedienne  353 

sharply  reproach  the  actors  and  loudly  praise 
the  honesty  of  Gold,  who  with  the  small 
salary  that  he  received  helped  his  sister,  in 
addition  to  supporting  himself.  Gold  would 
beam  with  joy  at  the  remembrance  of  his 
sister;  his  eyes  would  flash  with  tenderness 
and  at  such  moments  he  would  fervently 
promise  to  pay  the  missing  amount  on  the 
following  day  without  fail ;  but  he  never  paid. 

The  performances  were  rattled  off  to  get 
through  with  them,  for  the  general  disorder 
caused  by  Cabinski's  overthieveries  was  grow- 
ing ever  greater  and,  moreover,  the  nearness 
of  the  departure  for  Warsaw,  the  debts  in 
which  all  were  swamped,  the  approach  of  winter 
and  the  worry  over  securing  new  engagements 
did  not  put  anyone  in  a  mood  for  playing. 

And  all  the  while  Cabinski,  kissed  everyone 
and  promised  to  pay,  but  never  did  so.  He 
knew  how  to  arrange  matters  so  skillfully  and 
acted  so  excellently  the  part  of  a  man  worried 
about  the  welfare  of  everyone  that  Janina 
feeling  his  troubles  and  believing  him,  often 
lacked  the  courage  to  remind  him  of  the 
money  he  owed  her.  Moreover,  she  knew 
that  between  the  director  and  his  wife  there 
went  on  a  continual  battle  over  expenses  and 


354         *    The  Comedienne 

that  the  nurse  often  bought  various  things  for 
the  children  out  of  her  own  savings,  while 
Cabinska  would  sit  twice  as  long  at  the  pastry 
shop  to  avoid  hearing  the  complaints. 

Slowly,  but  in  an  ever  narrowing  circle, 
poverty  hemmed  Janina  in  and  clouded  her 
face  with  ceaseless  worry. 

Janina  suffered  all  the  more  in  her  present 
condition  because  she  was  unable  to  seclude 
herself  from  other  people  as  she  used  to  do  at 
Bukowiec  after  every  quarrel  with  her  father. 
She  could  not  rave  with  the  gales  and  calm  her- 
self inwardly  by  sheer  physical  exhaustion. 
She  tramped  about  the  city  but  everywhere 
she  met  too  many  people.  She  would  have 
gladly  confided  to  Glogowski  all  that  troubled 
her,  but  had  not  the  courage  to  do  so,  for  she 
was  restrained  by  pride.  Glogowski  seemed 
to  guess  her  condition,  or  at  least  her  worries, 
and  would  often  remind  her  that  she  ought  to 
tell  him  everything  .  .  .  everything.  But  she 
did  not  do  so. 

She  stayed  at  home  as  little  as  possible,  and 
whenever  she  entered  the  house  she  tried  to 
do  it  so  quietly  that  no  one  might  hear  her. 
It  was  not  the  possibility  that  she  might  find 
herself  thrown  out  into  the  street  on  the  mor- 


The  Comedienne  355 

row  that  frightened  her,  but  the  fact  that 
Mme.  Anna  or  Sowinska  might  say  to  her 
curtly:  "Pay  what  you  owe  me." 

But  that  moment  finally  arrived.  While 
eating  her  dinner  Janina  knew  the  inevitable 
had  come.  She  caught  just  one  glance  of 
Mme.  Anna's  eyes  while  she  was  serving  the 
soup  and  in  them  read  everything. 

After  the  meal,  which  to  Janina  had  been 
torture,  Mme.  Anna  followed  her  immediately 
and,  in  the  most  unconcerned  manner,  began  to 
relate  something  about  a  fantastic  customer. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  though  she  had  remem- 
bered something,  she  said:  "Oh  yes,  I  almost 
forgot!  Perhaps  you  will  let  me  have  that 
half -month's  rent,  for  I  must  pay  the  landlord 
to-day." 

"I  haven't  the  money  to-day  ..."  she 
wanted  to  add  something  else,  but  her  voice 
failed  her. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Please  give  me  what 
you  owe  me!  I  hope  you  don't  think  that  I 
can  feed  anyone  free  of  charge  .  .  .  just  for 
fun,  or  for  the  sake  of  having  them  as  an 
ornament  in  my  home!  A  fine  ornament 
indeed,  that  stays  up  all  night  and  comes  home 
only  in  the  wee  hours  of  the  morning!" 


356  The  Comedienne 

"You  needn't  fear  that  I  won't  pay  you!" 
cried  Janina  suddenly  aroused. 

"I  need  the  money  right  away!" 

"You  will  have  it  ...  in  an  hour!"  an- 
swered Janina,  making  some  sudden  determi- 
nation; she  glanced  with  such  scorn  at  Mme. 
Anna  that  the  latter  left  without  a  word, 
slamming  the  door  after  her. 

From  her  companions  Janina  had  heard 
something  about  the  pawnshop  and  she 
immediately  went  there  to  pawn  her  gold 
bracelet,  the  only  one  that  she  possessed. 

On  returning  home  she  immediately  paid 
Mme.  Anna,  who  was  surprised,  but  not  very 
polite. 

Having  done  that  Janina  added:  "I  will 
have  my  meals  at  the  restaurant ;  I  don't  want 
to  trouble  you." 

"Just  as  you  like.  If  things  here  don't  suit 
you,  you  are  free  to  do  as  you  please!"  whis- 
pered the  deeply  humiliated  Mme.  Anna. 

By  that  one  act  Janina  incurred  the  enmity 
of  the  whole  house. 

"I  will  sell  everything  I  possess  .  .  .  even 
to  the  last  button!"  she  said  to  herself  with 
bitter  resolve. 

And  Janina  calculated  that  for  one  half  of 


The  Comedienne  357 

what  she  had  been  paying  Mme.  Anna  she 
could  get  all  the  food  that  she  needed.  Wol- 
ska  directed  her  to  a  cheap  lunch-room  and 
she  went  there  for  her  dinners;  when  she  had 
not  money  enough  for  that,  a  roll  with  a 
sardine  had  to  suffice  her  for  the  entire  day. 

But  one  day  the  theater  was  closed,  for 
there  were  only  twenty  rubles  in  the  treasury; 
on  the  following  day  the  performance  was 
postponed  because  of  a  heavy  downpour. 
Janina,  like  everyone  else,  did  not  receive  a 
single  copeck  from  Cabinski  and  during  those 
two  days  had  absolutely  nothing  to  eat. 

This  first  hunger  which  she  could  not 
appease  because  she  had  nothing  to  appease  it 
with  had  a  fearful  effect  upon  her.  She  felt 
within  herself  a  strange  and  unceasing  pain. 

"Starvation!  Starvation!"  Janina  whis- 
pered to  herself  in  terror. 

Hitherto  she  had  known  it  by  its  name  only. 
Now  she  wondered  at  that  sensation  of  hunger 
within  her.  It  seemed  strange  to  her  that  she 
felt  like  eating  and  hadn't  the  money  even  to 
buy  herself  a  roll ! 

"Is  it  possible  that  I  have  nothing  to  eat?" 
Janina  asked  herself. 

From  the  kitchen  there  was  wafted  to  her 


358  The  Comedienne 

the  smell  of  frying  meat.  She  shut  the  door 
tightly  for  that  smell  nauseated  her. 

Janina  remembered  with  a  strange  emotion 
that  the  majority  of  great  artists  in  various 
ages  also  suffered  poverty  and  hunger.  The 
thought  consoled  her  for  a  while.  She  felt  as 
though  she  were  anointed  with  the  first  pang 
of  martyrdom  for  art's  sake. 

She  smiled  in  the  mirror  with  a  melancholy 
look  at  her  yellowish  and  worn  face.  She 
tried  to  read  to  rid  herself,  as  it  were,  of  her 
own  personality,  but  she  could  not,  for  she 
constantly  felt  that  growing  hunger. 

She  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  long 
yard  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  high 
windows  of  the  adjoining  houses,  but  she  saw 
how  in  a  few  houses  people  were  sitting  down 
to  the  table  and  saw  the  workmen  in  the  yard 
also  eating  their  dinner  from  small  clay  pots. 
She  quickly  drew  back  from  the  window  for 
she  felt  hunger  like  a  steel  hand  with  sharp 
claws  tearing  her  even  more  violently. 

"Everybody  is  eating!"  Janina  said  to 
herself  as  though  this  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  taken  note  of  that  fact. 

Later  she  lay  down  and  slept  until  the  evening 
without  going  either  to  the  rehearsal  or  to  Cabin- 


The  Comedienne  359 

ska's  home,  but  she  felt  even  weaker  upon  awak- 
ing and  had  a  painful  dizziness  in  her  head, 
while  that  keen  and  constant  sapping  sensation 
within  herself  tormented  her  so  that  she  wept. 

In  the  evening  in  the  dressing-room  a 
boisterous  gayety  possessed  Janina;  she 
laughed  continually,  joked  and  made  fun  of 
her  companions  quarreled  over  some  trifle 
with  Mimi  and  then  flirted  from  the  stage  with 
the  occupants  of  the  front  row  of  seats. 

When  the  counselor  appeared  behind  the 
scenes  right  after  the  first  act  with  a  box  of 
candy,  Janina  greeted  him  joyously  and 
pressed  his  hand  so  tightly  that  the  old  man 
became  confused.  Afterwards  she  sat  down 
in  some  dark  corner,  waiting  for  the  stage- 
director  to  cry : ' '  Enter ! ' '  When  the  darkness 
and  silence  enveloped  her,  she  broke  into 
convulsive  sobbing. 

After  the  performance  Janina  received  a 
quadruple  payment  on  account — two  whole 
rubles.  Cabinski  gave  them  to  her  himself 
in  secret  so  that  the  others  might  not  see  it. 

Janina  went  out  for  supper  on  the  veranda 
and  became  intoxicated  with  one  glass  of 
whiskey  so  that  she  herself  requested  Wladek 
to  escort  her  home. 


36°  The  Comedienne 

From  that  evening  Wladek  followed  her  like 
a  shadow  and  began  openly  to  show  her  his 
love,  paying  no  attention  to  the  fact  that  his 
mother  was  asking  everybody  in  the  theater 
about  him  and  constantly  tracking  both  him 
and  Janina. 

One  day  Glogowski  came  rushing  into  Ja- 
nina's  home  and  cried  out  already  from  the 
doorway:  "Well,  I  have  come  back  again  to 
my  Zulus!  ..." 

He  flung  his  hat  on  a  trunk,  sat  on  the  bed 
and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

Janina  gazed  at  him  calmly  and  thought 
how  strange  it  was  that  the  coming  of  this 
friend  who  had  interested  her  so  deeply  in  the 
past  should  now  leave  her  so  indifferent. 

"  So  you  do  not  weep  with  joy  at  seeing  me 
again,  eh?  Ha!  I'll  have  to  resign  myself  to 
it.  No  doubt  the  dogs  alone  will  weep  over 
me !  May  the  deuce  take  me !  But  don't  you 
happen  to  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
Kotlicki?  He  does  not  come  to  the  theater 
any  more  and  I  can't  find  him  anywhere.  He 
must  have  journeyed  somewhere." 

"I  have  not  seen  him  since  the  night  of  that 
supper,"  answered  Janina  slowly. 

''There  must  be  some  reason  for  his  dis- 


The  Comedienne  361 

appearance !  Probably  some  adventure,  some 
love  affair,  some  .  .  .  But  why  should  I 
bother  about  such  a  green  monkey,  eh?  Isn't 
that  true?" 

"Indeed  it  is!"  whispered  Janina,  turning 
her  face  toward  the  window. 

"Oh!  and  what  does  that  mean?"  he  cried, 
glancing  sharply  into  her  eyes.  "Goodness, 
how  you  have  changed!  Sunken  and  glassy 
eyes,  yellowish  complexion,  sharpened  fea- 
tures. .  .  .  What  does  it  all  mean?"  he 
asked  in  a  quieter  tone. 

Suddenly  he  struck  his  hand  to  his  forehead 
and  began  to  run  up  and  down  the  room  like  a 
maniac. 

"What  an  idiot  I  am.  What  a  monster! 
Here  I  am  parading  about  Warsaw,  while  here 
real,  artistic  poverty  has  quartered  itself  in 
earnest!  Miss  Janina,"  he  cried,  taking  her 
hand  and  looking  steadily  into  her  eyes,  "Miss 
Janina!  I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything  as 
at  confession.  May  the  deuce  take  me,  but 
you  must  tell  me!" 

Janina  was  silent ;  but  seeing  his  honest  face 
and  hearing  that  sympathetic  voice  whose 
accents  had  a  strange  way  of  gripping  one's 
heart,  she  suddenly  felt  overcome  by  feeling, 


362  The  Comedienne 

and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  She  could  not 
speak  for  emotion. 

"Well,  well,  there's  no  use  crying,  for  I 
shall  depart  anyway,"  he  said  jokingly  to  hide 
his  own  emotion.  "Now,  just  listen  to  me 
.  .  .  but  without  any  protests  or  loud  opposi- 
tion, for  I  detest  parliamentarism!  I  see  you 
are  in  poverty  and  theatrical  poverty  in  the 
bargain.  .  .  .  Well,  I  happen  to  know  what 
it's  like.  Now,  for  goodness'  sake,  stop  blush- 
ing. Poverty  that  is  honestly  acquired  is  not 
anything  to  be  ashamed  of!  It's  nothing  but 
an  ordinary  smallpox  which  all  people  who  are 
worth  anything  in  this  world  have  to  pass 
through.  Ho!  ho!  I  have  been  playing  blind- 
man's  buff  with  troubles  since  many  a  year! 
Well,  I  shall  end  what  I  am  saying  in  a  gallop. 
Let  us  do  this  ..." 

He  turned  around,  took  from  his  pocket- 
book  thirty  rubles,  that  is,  all  the  money  that 
had  been  sent  him  for  his  journey,  placed  it 
under  Janina's  pillow  and  returned  to  his 
former  seat. 

'"Now  we  are  agreed,  are  we  not,  my 
cousin  .  .  .'  said  Louis  XI  after  beheading 
the  Duke  of  Anjou.  I  will  accept  no  appeal 
and  if  you  dare  to  ..." 


The  Comedienne  363 

He  grasped  his  hat  and  extending  his  hand, 
said  softly:  " Good-bye,  Miss  Janina." 

With  a  desperate  motion,  Janina  hastily 
barred  the  door  with  her  body. 

"No,  no!  Do  not  humiliate  me!  I  am 
unfortunate  enough  as  it  is,"  she  whispered, 
firmly  holding  his  hand. 

"There  you  have  a  woman's  philosophy! 
May  the  deuce  take  me,  but  that  which  I  did 
is  as  natural  as  the  fact  that  I  will  some  day 
blow  out  my  brains  and  that  you  will  become 
a  great  actress!" 

Janina  began  to  expostulate  with  him,  and 
finally  to  urge  him  to  take  back  his  money, 
saying  that  she  did  not  need  it,  that  she  would 
not  accept  it,  and  showing  a  deep  aversion  to 
being  helped. 

Glogowski  became  gloomy  and  said  roughly : 
" What!  May  the  deuce  take  me,  but  of  the 
two  of  us  I  certainly  am  not  the  fool !  But  no ! 
I  refuse  to  get  provoked  about  it.  I  shall  sit 
down  calmly  and  talk  it  over  with  you  seri- 
ously. I  don't  want  you  to  get  angry  at  me 
over  such  an  empty  thing  as  money.  You 
don't  want  to  take  it,  although  you  need  it, 
and  why?  Because  a  false  shame  deters  you, 
because  you  have  been  taught  that  such  simple 


364  The  Comedienne 

human  things  as  helping  one  another  lowers 
one's  pride.  Such  conceptions  are  already 
becoming  putrid.  To  the  museum  with  them ! 
Those  are  foolish  and  evil  prejudices.  May 
the  deuce  take  me,  but  it  requires  a  European 
brain  and  hysterical  subtlety  to  hesitate  to 
accept  money  from  a  human  being  like  your- 
self when  you  are  in  need.  Why  and  to  what 
purpose  do  you  think  the  human  herd  unites 
itself  into  some  form  of  society?  Is  it  mutu- 
ally to  devour  and  rob  one  another  or  mutually 
to  help  one  another?  I  know  you  will  tell  me 
that  it  is  otherwise,  but  I  answer  you  that 
that  is  precisely  why  we  have  so  much  evil  in 
this  world.  And  once  we  recognize  a  thing 
as  evil  we  ought  to  shun  it.  Man  ought  to 
do  good.  That  is  his  duty.  To  do  good  is 
the  wisest  mathematics.  But  Great  Scott! 
What's  the  use  of  my  making  so  much  ado 
about  it!"  he  cried  in  irritation. 

He  continued  to  speak  for  a  long  while  yet, 
scoffed,  swore  occasionally,  shouted:  "May 
the  deuce  take  me,"  and  raged  fiercely,  but  in 
his  voice  there  was  so  much  sincere  and  deep 
friendliness,  such  heartfelt  kindness,  that 
Janina,  although  she  was  not  at  all  convinced, 
accepted  his  proffered  aid  with  a  grateful 


The  Comedienne  365 

handclasp  only  because  she  did  not  wish  to 
offend  him  by  refusing. 

"Well,  that  is  what  I  like!  And  now  .  .  . 
good-bye!"  he  said,  arising  to  go. 

"Good-bye!  I  wish  to  thank  you  once 
more  and  I  am  so  very  grateful  and  obligated 
to  you  ..."  murmured  Janina. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  much  kindness 
people  have  shown  me!  I  would  like  to  repay 
only  one  hundredth  part  of  it  to  others.  I 
will  add  yet  that  we  shall  no  doubt  meet  each 
other  in  the  spring." 

"Where?"  asked  Janina. 

"Bah !  I  don't  know !  but  that  it  will  be  in 
the  theater  of  that  I  am  sure,  for  I  have  deter- 
mined to  join  the  theater  in  the  spring,  if  only 
for  a  half  year  so  that  I  may  gain  a  better 
knowledge  of  the  stage." 

"Oh,  that's  an  excellent  idea!" 

1 '  Now  we  are  even  with  one  another,  as  my  fa- 
ther used  to  say  after  he  had  massaged  my  hide 
so  that  it  shone  as  though  freshly  tanned.  I  leave 
you  my  address  and  say  nothing,  only  remind 
you  that  you  are  to  tell  me  everything  by  letter 
.  .  .  everything!  Do  you  give  me  your  word?" 

"I  give  you  my  word!"  Janina  answered 
gravely. 


366  The  Comedienne 

"I  trust  your  word  as  though  it  were  that 
of  a  man,  although  with  women  a  word  of 
honor  is  usually  an  empty  word  only,  which 
they  make  use  of,  but  never  fulfill.  Good- 
bye!" 

Glogowski  pressed  both  her  hands  firmly, 
raised  them  a  little  as  though  he  were  eager 
to  kiss  them,  but  quickly  dropped  them  again, 
glanced  into  her  eyes,  laughed  a  trifle  unnatur- 
ally— and  departed. 

Janina  sat  thinking  for  a  long  time  about 
him.  She  felt  so  deep  a  gratitude  toward  him 
and  felt  so  cheered  and  strengthened  by  her 
talk  with  him  that  she  regretted  she  did  not 
know  on  what  train  Glogowski  was  leaving,  for 
she  had  a  desire  to  see  him  once  more. 

Then  again,  there  arose  in  her  something 
that  protested  loudly  against  the  aid  he  had 
given  her,  something  that  saw  in  that  kind- 
ness an  insult. 

"Alms!"  Janina  whispered  bitterly  and  felt 
a  burning  pain  of  humiliation. 

"Can't  I  live  alone,  can't  I  get  along  by  my 
own  unaided  strength,  can't  I  be  sufficient 
unto  myself?  Must  I  continually  lean  on 
someone  for  support?  Must  there  always  be 
someone  watching  over  me?  The  others  know 


The  Comedienne  367 

how  to  help  themselves,  why  can't  I?"  she 
asked  herself. 

Janina  pondered  over  this,  but  a  moment 
later  she  went  to  the  pawnshop  to  redeem  her 
bracelet  and  on  the  way  bought  herself  an 
inexpensive  autumn  hat. 

Life  dragged  on  for  her  slowly,  sluggishly,  and 
wearily. 

Janina  was  sustained  only  by  the  hope,  or 
rather  by  a  deep  faith  that  all  this  would 
change  radically  and  soon,  and  in  this  longing 
anticipation  she  began  to  pay  ever  more 
attention  to  Wladek.  She  knew  that  he  loved 
her.  She  listened  almost  daily  to  his  confes- 
sions and  proposals,  smiling  deep  within  herself 
and  thinking  that  in  spite  of  all  she  could  not 
become  that  which  her  companions  became. 
Their  mode  of  life  aroused  a  deep  aversion  in 
her  for  she  felt  a  truly  organic  revulsion  to  all 
forms  of  filth.  But  these  attentions  of  Wladek 
had  at  least  this  effect,  that  they  awakened 
in  her  for  the  first  time  conscious  thoughts  of 
love. 

She  dreamed  at  moments  of  loving  a  man 
to  whom  she  could  give  herself  entirely  and 
for  all  time;  she  dreamed  of  a  united  life  full 
of  ecstasy  and  love,  such  a  love  as  poets 


358  The  Comedienne 

presented  in  their  plays;  and  then  there  would 
pass  before  her  mind  the  figures  of  all  the  great 
lovers  about  whom  she  had  read,  passionate 
whispers,  burning  embraces,  volcanic  passions 
and  that  whole  Titanic  love  life,  the  remem- 
brance of  which  sent  a  tremor  of  delight 
through  her. 

Janina  did  not  know  whence  these  dreams 
came,  but  they  would  visit  her  ever  more 
frequently  in  spite  of  the  poverty  which  again 
began  to  grow  more  distressing,  and  the  fre- 
quent hunger  that  gripped  her  as  it  were  in 
bony  embrace.  Her  bracelet  again  went  to 
the  pawnshop,  for  she  continually  had  to  buy 
some  new  article  of  wear  for  the  stage,  so  that 
often  she  was  forced  to  deny  herself  food  only 
to  be  able  to  buy  what  she  needed.  New  plays 
were  continually  presented  to  draw  the  public 
but  success  was  as  far  off  as  ever. 

Such  a  situation  harassed  and  tormented 
Janina  dreadfully,  robbing  her  of  her  strength, 
but  it  also  awakened  a  rebellion  which  began 
to  seethe  silently  within  her.  She  felt  at  first 
an  indefinable  animosity  toward  everybody. 
She  regarded  with  a  fierce  envy  the  women 
whom  she  met  on  the  street. 

Often,  she  would  be  seized  with  a  mad  desire 


The  Comedienne  369 

to  stop  one  of  those  well-dressed  ladies  and 
ask  her  whether  she  knew  what  poverty  was. 
She  observed  intently  their  faces,  their  clothes, 
and  their  smiles  and  came  to  the  painful  con- 
clusion that  these  ladies  could  not  know  that 
there  were  other  people  who  suffered,  wept, 
and  were  hungry.  But  later  Janina  began  to 
reason  that  she  herself  was  dressed  in  the  same 
way  as  these  other  women ;  that  there  may  be 
among  them  others  in  the  same  plight  as  she, 
and  that  perhaps  unknowingly  they  passed 
her  on  the  way,  hungry  and  desperate,  hurling 
the  same  glances  at  other  passers-by  that  she 
did.  She  tried  to  distinguish  the  faces  of  such 
sufferers  in  the  multitude,  but  could  not.  All 
appeared  to  be  satisfied  and  happy. 

Then,  something  like  the  triumph  of  her 
own  ascendancy  over  this  well-dressed  and 
well-fed  multitude  lit  up  Janina 's  face.  She 
felt  herself  to  be  far  superior  to  this  world  of 
everyday  mortals. 

"I  have  an  idea,  an  aim!"  she  thought. 
"  What  do  they  live  for?  What  is  their  object 
in  life?"  she  would  often  ask  herself.  And 
unable  to  answer  that  question,  Janina  would 
smile  pityingly  at  the  emptiness  of  their 

existence. 
24 


3?o  The  Comedienne 

"A  race  of  butterflies  that  knows  not 
whence,  nor  why,  nor  to  what  end  their  life 
has  been  given  them!" — she  whispered,  sating 
herself  to  her  heart's  content  with  that  silent 
scorn  of  people  that  was  growing  to  abnormal 
proportions  in  her. 

Cabinska,  Janina  now  hated  with  her  whole 
soul,  for  although  Pepa  always  treated  her 
with  a  sugary  affability,  she  never  paid  her 
for  Yadzia's  piano  lessons,  taking  advantage  of 
Janina's  situation  and  abilities  with  a  hypo- 
critical smile  of  friendliness.  Janina  could 
not  sever  relations  with  her,  for  she  felt  dis- 
tinctly that  behind  that  mask  of  politeness 
that  Pepa  wore  there  was  hidden  a  fury  who 
would  not  forgive  her  that.  Furthermore,  she 
hated  Cabinska  as  a  woman,  a  mother,  and  an 
actress.  She  had  come  to  know  her  well,  and 
moreover,  in  her  present  period  of  continual 
strain  and  struggle,  she  had  either  to  love  or 
hate  someone  immensely.  Janina  did  not  love 
anyone  as  yet,  but  already  she  hated. 

"Do  you  know  it  is  hardly  believable  that 
such  an  incompetent  judge  as  the  directress 
should  herself  assign  the  roles  for  all  our 
plays!"  she  once  remarked  to  Wladek  greatly 
embittered  by  the  fact  that  she  had  been 


The  Comedienne  37 1 

ignored  in  the  selection  of  the  cast  for  an  old 
melodramatic  caricature  entitled  Martin,  the 
Foundling. 

"It  is  too  bad  that  you  did  not  ask  her  for 
a  r61e  for,  as  you  see,  the  director  can  do 
nothing,"  said  Wladek. 

"Quite  true!  That's  a  good  idea!  I'll  try 
it  to-morrow." 

"Ask  her  for  the  r61e  of  'Mary'  in  Doctor 
Robin  which  we  are  to  present  next  week. 
Some  amateur  wishes  to  join  our  company 
and  he  is  to  make  his  d6but  as  'Garrick. '" 

"What  sort  of  r61e  is  that  of  'Mary?'" 

"A  splendid  display  r61e!  I  think  that  you 
would  act  it  superbly.  I  can  bring  you  the 
play,  if  you  wish." 

"Good!  we  can  read  it  together." 

On  the  morrow  Janina  received  a  solemn 
promise  from  Cabinska  that  she  would  be 
given  the  part. 

In  the  afternoon  Wladek  brought  Doctor 
Robin.  This  was  his  first  visit  to  Janina' s 
home,  so  he  took  care  to  appear  particularly 
handsome,  elegant,  polite,  and  somewhat 
absent-minded.  He  acted  love  and  respect  for 
Janina  with  the  skill  of  a  virtuoso;  he  was  very 
quiet,  as  though  from  an  excess  of  happiness. 


372  The  Comedienne 

'For  the  first  time  I  feel  shy  and  happy!" 
he  said,  kissing  Janina's  hand. 

"Why  shy?  You  are  alway  so  sure  of  your- 
self on  the  stage!"  she  answered,  a  bit 
confused. 

-Yes,  on  the  stage,  where  one  only  plays 
happiness,  but  not  here  .  .  .  where  I  am 
really  happy." 

"Happy?"  she  repeated. 

Wladek  glanced  at  Janina  with  such 
passionate  intensity,  with  such  mastery  of 
facial  expression,  accentuated  by  a  rapturous 
smile,  simulating  the  ecstasy  and  transport  of 
love,  that  had  he  shown  this  on  the  stage  he 
would  have  been  warmly  applauded. 
•  Janina  understood  him  excellently  and 
something  stirred  in  her  as  though  some  new 
string  in  her  heart  had  been  lightly  plucked. 

Wladek  began  to  read  the  play.  With  each 
of  "Mary's"  words,  Janina's  enthusiastic 
nature  burst  forth  anew.  With  bated  breath, 
and  eyes  fixed  on  Wladek,  she  listened,  not 
daring  to  mar,  either  by  word  or  gesture,  the 
impression  that  his  reading  made  on  her.  She 
feared  to  dispel  the  charm  that  spoke  through 
his  eloquent  voice  and  in  the  velvety  softness 
of  his  black  eyes. 


The  Comedienne  373 

When  he  had  finished  reading,  the  girl  cried 
out  in  rapture:  "What  a  splendid  role!" 

"I  am  willing  to  wager  that  you  will  make 
a  furore  in  it,"  remarked  Wladek. 

"Yes  ...  I  feel  that  I  could  play  it  fairly 
well.  'Garrick,  that  creator  of  souls,  so 
mighty  in  Coriolanus! ' "  she  whispered,  repeat- 
ing a  remembered  line  of  the  play. 

And  Janina's  face  glowed  with  such  fervor, 
so  radiant  did  she  become  with  her  deep  inner 
joy,  that  Wladek  scarcely  recognized  her. 

"You  are  an  enthusiast,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  because  I  love  art!  Give  all  for  art 
and  everything  is  contained  in  art!  .  .  .  that 
is  my  motto.  Beyond  art  I  see  almost 
nothing,"  answered  Janina  suddenly  kindling 
anew  with  ardor. 

"Even  love?"  asked  Wladek. 

"But  art  appears  to  me  to  be  a  greater  and 
completer  expression  of  the  ideal  than 
love  ..."  answered  Janina. 

"But  it  is  more  alien  to  human  beings  and 
not  so  necessary  to  life  as  is  love.  Without 
art  the  world  could  exist,  but  without  love  .  .  . 
never!  Moreover,  art  causes  more  painful 
disappointments  than  love." 

"But  it  also  gives  greater  joys.     Love  is  an 


374  The  Comedienne 

individual  emotion;  art  is  a  social  emotion,  a 
synthesis.  One  loves  it  with  one's  humanity, 
one  suffers  for  it,  but  only  through  art  does 
one  sometimes  become  immortal!" 

1 '  Those  are  dreams.  Thousands  have  given 
their  lives  to  become  convinced  of  that  and 
thousands  have  cursed  that  unattainable 
mirage." 

"But  those  thousands  had  their  lives  filled 
with  that  mirage  and  felt  more  than  one  can 
feel,  who  dreams  about  nothing." 

"But  since  they  were  not  happy,  what  is  it 
all  worth?' 

"And  are  most  people  happy?" 

"A  thousandfold  more  so  than  we!" 

Wladek  emphasized  that  "  we  "  significantly. 

"Never!"  cried  Janina,  "for  our  happiness 
lies  in  pain  as  it  does  in  joy,  in  dejection  as 
well  as  ecstasy.  Even  this  in  itself  is  happi- 
ness: to  be  able  to  develop  one's  self  spiritu- 
ally; to  reach  far  out  into  infinity  with  the 
arms  of  desire;  to  create  new  worlds  in  our 
mind,  larger  and  more  beautiful  than  those 
surrounding  us;  to  chant,  even  through  tears 
and  pain,  hymns  to  beauty  and  immortality ;  to 
dream,  but  to  dream  so  intensely  as  to  forget 
about  life  entirely  and  to  live  in  dreams  alone ! " 

• 


The  Comedienne  375 

Janina  felt  so  great  a  flood  of  happiness  and 
inspiration  flowing  into  her  soul  that  she 
spoke,  as  it  were,  only  in  periods  of  her 
thought,  so  that  she  might  express  herself  at 
least  in  part.  She  spoke,  entirely  forgetful  of 
the  fact  that  some  one  was  listening  to  her  and 
spun  out  aloud  ever  grander  and  ever  more 
evanescent  dreams. 

Wladek  at  first  listened  attentively,  but 
later  grew  impatient. 

"A  comedienne!"  he  thought  with  irony. 
And  he  was  sure  that  Janina  was  unfurling  before 
him  the  peacock  feathers  of  fervor  and  enthu- 
siasm merely  to  fascinate  and  conquer  him. 
He  did  not  answer  or  interrupt  ner,  for  it 
finally  began  to  bore  him. 

"That  r61e  of  'Mary'  is  a  trifle  too  senti- 
mental .  .  ."  added  Janina  after  a  longer 
silence. 

"To  me  it  seemed  merely  lyrical,"  answered 
Wladek. 

"  I  should  like  some  time  to  play  'Ophelia.' ' 

"Are  you  familiar  with  Hamlet?11  asked 
Wladek,  somewhat  surprised. 

"During  the  last  two  years  I  have  read 
nothing  but  dramas  and  dreamed  of  the 
stage,"  she  answered  simply. 


376  The  Comedienne 

"Truly  it  is  worth  bending  the  knee  before 
such  enthusiasm ! " 

"Why?  All  that  is  necessary  is  to  help  it, 
to  give  it  a  field,  an  opportunity.  ..." 

"If  I  only  could.  .  .  .  Believe  me  when  I 
say,  that  with  my  whole  heart  I  desire  to  see 
you  reach  the  heights  of  art." 

"I  believe  you,"  Janina  answered  in  a 
quieter  tone.  "And  I  thank  you  very  much 
for  Doctor  Robin" 

"May  I  copy  out  the  r61e  for  you?" 

"I  will  copy  it  myself;  it  will  give  me  a  cer- 
tain pleasure." 

"While  you  are  learning  it,  I  could  act  as  a 
prompter  for  you,  if  you  like." 

"Oh,  I  should  not  want  to  take  up  any  of 
your  time  .  .  ." 

"Exclude  a  few  hours  each  day  for  the 
performance  and  the  rest  of  my  time  is  yours 
to  dispose  of  as  you  will,"  he  said  with  fervor. 

They  gazed  at  each  other  a  moment. 

Janina  gave  Wladek  her  hand;  he  held  and 
kissed  it  for  a  long  time. 

"Beginning  with  to-morrow  I  shall  start  to 
learn  the  part  for  I  have  a  day  off, ' '  said  Janina. 

"I  also  do  not  appear  on  the  stage 
to-morrow." 


The  Comedienne  377 

Wladek  went  out  a  little  angry  at  himself, 
for  although  he  called  Janina  a  "comedienne" 
she  had  made  him  feel  abashed  with  her 
simplicity  and  enthusiasm.  Moreover,  he 
felt  in  her  a  certain  intellectual  and  artistic 
superiority. 

Janina  feverishly  applied  herself  to  the 
study  of  Doctor  Robin.  In  a  few  days  she 
knew  not  only  the  r61e  of  "Mary,"  but  had 
memorized  the  entire  play.  So  intensely 
eager  was  she  to  play  the  r61e,  that  it  seemed  as 
though  she  were  staking  her  whole  life  on  this 
performance.  Her  former  dreams  that  had 
been  subdued  a  bit  by  poverty  and  the  feverish 
life  of  the  theater  now  again  burst  forth  with  a 
flaming  intensity  that  dazzled  and  hypnotized 
her.  The  theater  again  took  so  powerful  a 
hold  on  Janina  that  there  was  no  room  in  her 
consciousness  for  anything  else.  In  her  hours 
of  ecstasy  it  appeared  to  her  like  a  mystic 
altar  suspended  high  above  the  gray  vale  of 
everyday  life  and  glowing  with  flames  like  a 
second  burning  bush  of  Moses;  it  seemed  to 
her  like  a  miracle  that  endured  eternally. 

Wladek  came  to  see  Janina  each  day  in  the 
interval  between  the  rehearsal  and  the  per- 
formance, although  he  was  already  beginning 


378  The  Comedienne 

to  be  immensely  bored  by  her  endlessly  re- 
peated raptures  and  was  growing  impatient 
over  the  fact  that  in  her  mad  absorption  in  art 
she  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  him.  He 
could  not  penetrate  her  morbid  enthusiasm, 
as  he  called  it,  with  his  love,  but  he  neverthe- 
less continued  to  go  to  her. 

He  began  to  desire  Janina' s  love  ever  more 
strongly.  He  was  invited  by  her  naivete  and 
by  the  talent  which  he  felt  she  possessed. 
Moreover,  he  had  long  since  desired  just  such 
an  elegant  and  educated  mistress.  He  wanted 
by  all  means  to  possess  this  refined  and  genteel 
girl,  who  was  so  different  from  his  former 
mistresses  and  who  captivated  him  by  the 
charm  of  her  superiority.  His  triumph  would 
be  all  the  greater,  he  told  himself,  because  of 
the  fact  that  she  seemed  to  him  one  of  those 
ladies  of  the  fashionable  world  upon  whom  he 
would  often  cast  covetous  glances  in  the 
Ujazdowskie  Allees. 

Janina  had  not  told  Wladek  that  she  loved 
him,  but  he  already  saw  it  in  her  eyes  and 
spun  an  ever  stronger  web  about  her  made  up 
of  smiles,  passionate  words,  sighs,  and  exag- 
gerated respect. 

For  Janina  this  was   the  most  beautiful 


The  Comedienne  379 

period  that  she  had  known  in  her  life.  Pov- 
erty she  treated  with  scorn,  as  though  it  were 
only  a  temporary  thing  that  would  soon  pass 
away. 

Sowinska,  after  Wladek's  frequent  visits, 
became  more  intimate  and  friendly  with  Ja- 
nina  and  advised  her  to  sell  those  parts  of  her 
wardrobe  which  she  did  not  need,  even  offering 
to  do  it  for  her. 

And  so  life  went  on  for  Janina  who  was 
oblivious  to  everything  else  but  that  perform- 
ance of  Doctor  Robin  which  she  awaited  with 
the  greatest  impatience.  She  lived,  as  it  were, 
in  a  troubled  dream.  Through  the  prism  of 
dreams  the  world  again  appeared  brighter  to 
her5,  and  people  kind.  She  forgot  about  every- 
thing, even  about  Glogowski,  whose  recent 
letter  she  laid  away  only  half  read,  for  she  now 
lived  entirely  in  the  future.  She  fortified  her- 
self against  the  present  with  dreams  of  what 
was  to  come. 

Furthermore,  Janina  loved  Wladek.  She 
did  not  know  how  it  had  come  about,  but  she 
now  knew  that  she  could  not  do  without  him. 
She  felt  very  happy  and  peaceful,  when,  lean- 
ing on  his  arm,  she  walked  along  the  streets 
and  listened  to  his  low,  melodious  voice.  The 


380  The  Comedienne 

soft  velvety  glances  of  his  dark  eyes  made  her 
glow  with  passion  and  a  sweet  helplessness.  .  .  . 

Everything  about  him  attracted  her.  He 
appeared  so  beautiful  upon  the  stage!  He 
acted  with  such  fervor  and  lyricism  the  parts 
of  unhappy  lovers  in  the  melodramas!  He 
spoke,  moved  about  and  posed  with  such 
charming  simplicity.  He  was  the  favorite  of 
the  public;  even  the  press  bestowed  frequent 
praises  upon  him  and  predicted  a  brilliant 
artistic  future  for  him. 

It  pleased  Janina  to  see  him  applauded  on 
the  stage.  And  so  skillfully  did  he  know  how 
to  exhibit  the  resources  of  his  brain,  that  he 
was  generally  taken  for  an  educated  man, 
while  in  reality  he  possessed  only  cleverness 
and  the  brazenness  of  a  Warsaw  loafer  and 
trickster.  Moreover,  for  Janina  he  was  the 
first  and  only  man  to  whom  she  had  ever 
surrendered  herself.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
this  bound  them  for  all  time  and  indissolubly. 

It  happened,  as  it  were,  of  itself,  after  one  of 
the  rehearsals  of  Doctor  Robin  in  which  Wladek 
acted  as  a  substitute  in  the  role  of  "Garrick." 
When  they  had  left  the  theater  he  spoke  or 
rather  declaimed  to  her  about  love  with  a 
volcanic  outburst  of  passion  and  accentuated 


The  Comedienne  381 

his  emotion  with  such  pathos  that  he  stirred 
her  to  the  very  depths  of  her  soul.  She  felt 
sudden  tears  of  tenderness  welling  up  in  her 
eyes;  and  a  desire  for  tremendous  happiness 
through  life  and  death  remained  in  her  dream- 
ing heart.  Her  whole  soul  was  absorbed  in  the 
desire  for  love. 

Janina  did  not  even  know  what  was  happen- 
ing to  her,  for  she  could  not  resist  the  fasci- 
nation of  his  voice.  That  musical  pleading  of 
love,  those  burning  kisses,  and  those  passion- 
ate glances  flooded  her  entire  being  with  an 
overwhelming  and  mad  desire  for  joy.  She 
abandoned  herself  to  him  with  the  passiveness 
of  a  fascinated  creature,  without  a  word  of 
protest  or  resistance,  but  also  without  a 
consciousness  of  what  she  was  doing ;  in  a  word, 
she  was  hypnotized. 

She  did  not  even  know  what  it  was  in  him 
that  she  loved:  the  actor  masterfully  playing 
upon  her  emotions  and  enthusiasm,  or  the 
man.  Janina  did  not  think  of  this.  She 
loved  him  because  she  loved  him  and  because 
he  personified  the  theater  and  art  for  her. 

It  seemed  to  Janina  that  through  his  eyes 
she  saw  farther  and  deeper.  Her  soul  was 
growing  (as  the  peasants  describe  certain 


382  The  Comedienne 

stages  in  the  development  of  youth),  so  besides 
her  distant  plans  of  fame  in  the  future,  she 
needed  something  for  herself  alone,  she  needed 
to  strengthen  herself  and  support  herself  on 
some  loving  heart  which  would  at  the  same 
time  serve  as  a  stepping-stone  for  her  own 
elevation.  She  no  longer  felt  lonely,  for  she 
could  now  reveal  to  Wladek  her  most  secret 
thoughts,  dreams,  and  projects  for  the  future 
and  go  over  various  heroic  r61es  together  with 
him.  '  He  was  a  sort  of  physical  complement 
of  her,  and  outlet  for  her  excessive  energy 
and  dreams. 

Janina  did  not  submerge  and  lose  herself  in 
Wladek's  being,  but  rather  absorbed  him  into 
herself.  And  not  for  one  moment  did  she 
think  that  she  had  surrendered  herself  to  him, 
that  he  was  henceforth  her  lover  and  lord  and 
that  she  belonged  to  him!  She  did  not  even 
consider  whether  he  had  a  soul  or  not.  It 
sufficed  her  to  know  that  he  was  handsome, 
popular,  that  he  loved  her  and  that  she  needed 
him.  Even  in  her  most  intimate  confidences 
and  whispers  of  love  there  was  a  tone  of 
unconscious  superiority.  She  spoke  with  him 
continually  but  almost  never  asked  him  for  his 
opinion  and  very  seldom  listened  to  his  replies. 


The  Comedienne  383 

Wladek  could  not  understand  this,  but  he 
was  conscious  of  it  and  it  acted  as  an  unpleas- 
ant restraint  upon  him,  for  in  spite  of  their 
intimate  relation,  he  could  not  feel  at  ease 
with  her  in  his  own  way.  It  wounded  his  self- 
love,  but  he  had  no  way  of  remedying  it.  He 
possessed  her  body,  but  not  her  soul — that 
mysterious  something,  that  love  that  gives 
itself  for  life  and  eternity  and  makes  of  itself 
a  footstool  for  the  lover.  This  attitude  of 
Janina's  irritated  him,  but  nevertheless 
attracted  him  so  irresistibly  that  he  doubled 
his  pretenses  of  love,  thinking  that  by  a  larger 
dose  of  sentimental  falsehood,  and  a  better 
acting  of  emotion  he  would  at  last  captivate 
and  conquer  her  completely.  However,  he 
did  not  succeed  in  doing  so. 

Janina,  aside  from  this  love,  gradually 
renounced  everything,  yet  in  spite  of  that  she 
felt  content.  She  often  suffered  hunger,  but  it 
was  enough  for  her  to  have  Wladek  at  her  side 
and  to  become  absorbed  in  her  r61e,  to  forget 
about  the  whole  world. 

The  performance  of  Doctor  Robin  was  post- 
poned from  day  to  day,  for  the  amateur  who 
was  to  make  his  debut  in  it  became  ill.  In  the 
meanwhile,  other  plays  had  to  be  given;  so 


384  The  Comedienne 

Janina  was  forced  to  content  herself  with 
waiting.  She  was  consumed  by  impatience 
and  the  ambition  to  rise  at  once  above  the 
throng  of  her  companions  and  was  also 
impelled  by  the  hope  of  ending  her  poverty 
by  this  means  and  finally,  by  the  need  of  her 
own  soul  which  had  formed  its  own  conception 
of  the  character  of  "Mary"  and  had  to  give 
it  forth. 

Janina  did  not  even  pay  attention  to  what 
was  brewing  behind  the  scenes  where  every 
day  schemes  and  projects  for  new  companies 
were  formed,  only  to  be  abandoned  after  a 
few  days.  Krzykiewicz  had  already  deli- 
cately suggested  to  Janina  on  a  few  occasions 
that,  if  she  wished,  she  could  secure  an  engage- 
ment with  Ciepieszewski.  She  declined,  for 
she  remembered  Topolski 's  project  and  wished 
to  wait  for  its  realization,  knowing  that  he  was 
counting  on  her  for  sure. 

Topolski  was  in  reality  organizing  a  com- 
pany. It  was  meant  to  be  a  secret  as  yet,  but 
everyone  knew  about  it.  It  was  openly  said 
that  Mimi,  Wawrzecki,  Piesh  with  his  wife, 
and  a  few  of  the  younger  forces  had  already 
signed  a  contract  and  that  Topolski  had 
quietly  closed  a  deal  for  the  Lubelsk  Theater,  a 


The  Comedienne  385 

new  building  that  had  just  been  opened.  It 
was  known  for  certain  that  Kotlicki  and  others 
had  advanced  him  the  necessary  capital. 

Cabinski,  of  course,  knew  all  about  this  and 
loudly  ridiculed  these  projects.  He  knew  very 
well  that  he  could  win  back  all  those  who  had 
joined  Topolski  by  merely  giving  them  larger 
advances  on  their  salaries.  He  predicted  that 
Topolski  would  not  hold  out  for  one  season 
and  would  go  to  smash,  for  he  did  not  believe 
that  anyone  was  willing  to  loan  him  money  for 
organizing  a  new  company. 

" There  are  no  longer  any  such  fools!"  he 
said  aloud  with  conviction.  What  amused 
him  most  was  Topolski 's  proposed  reform  of 
the  theater  which  he  unceremoniously  termed 
an  idiocy.  Cabinski  knew  the  public  well  and 
knew  what  it  wanted. 

Topolski  held  frequent  soirees  at  his  home 
to  which  he  invited  all  those  whom  he  might 
need.  But  he  did  not  yet  speak  openly  about 
his  company,  leaving  that  to  Wawrzecki  who 
treated  the  matter  enthusiastically  as  though 
it  were  his  own  and  used  it  to  taunt  Cabinski 
with  and  to  create  more  frequent  rumpuses 
about  his  overdue  salary. 

Janina  was  present  at  a  few  of  these  eve- 


386  The  Comedienne 

nings  at  Topolski's  house,  but  was  bored  by 
them,  for  the  men  would  usually  play  cards, 
while  the  women,  if  they  were  not  gossiping  or 
complaining,  would  enclose  themselves  within 
a  narrow  circle  for  secret  whispering  from 
which  they  barred  Janina,  fearing  that  she 
might  betray  something  to  Cabinski,  to  whose 
home  she  went  daily  to  give  piano  lessons. 

At  the  last  of  these  evenings,  while  they 
were  having  tea,  Majkowska  quietly  begged 
Janina  to  stay  a  little  longer,  promising  that 
she  and  Topolski  would  accompany  her  home. 

Wladek  never  appeared  at  these  affairs,  for 
he  was  an  open  and  stanch  supporter  of 
Cabinski. 

After  all  the  rest  had  gone  Topolski  sat 
opposite  Janina  and  began  to  tell  her  about 
the  company  he  was  organizing. 

"It  will  be  an  exemplary  theater  for  true 
art!  I  have  a  splendid  ensemble  of  actors;  I 
have  made  a  contract  for  one  of  the  best 
theaters,  the  library  is  ready  to  be  sent  away 
and  the  costumes  are  already  half  completed, 
hence  we  have  almost  all  that  is  needed." 

"What  are  you  still  lacking? "  asked  Janina, 
determining  immediately  to  ask  for  an 
engagement. 


The  Comedienne  387 

"  A  little  money  ...  a  mere  trifle  of  about 
a  thousand  rubles  as  a  working  capital  for  the 
first  month,"  answered  Topolski. 

" Couldn't  you  borrow  it?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  that  is  precisely  what  I 
want  to  talk  over  with  you  in  a  friendly  way, 
for  we  already  count  you  as  one  of  us.  I  will 
give  you  a  good  salary  and  alternating  r61es 
with  Mela  for  I  know  that  you  are  a  capable 
actress.  You  have  the  appearance,  the  voice 
and  the  temperament,  and,  aside  from  intelli- 
gence, that  is  just  what  is  required  to  make  an 
excellent  actress." 

"Oh  thank  you,  thank  you  sincerely! "  cried 
Janina  beaming  with  joy.  And  so  elated  was 
she  that  she  kissed  Majkowska,  who,  as  was 
her  habit,  was  almost  lying  on  the  table  and 
gazing  absently  at  the  lamp. 

"But  you  must  help  us!"  said  Topolski 
after  a  short  pause. 

"  I ?     What  can  I  do? "  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"A  great  deal!  If  you  only  want  to  .  .  ." 
he  answered. 

"Well!  if  you  say  that  I  can,  then,  of  course 
I  shall  be  glad  to  help,  for  it  is  not  only  my 
duty,  but  also  in  my  own  interest!  But  I'm 
very  curious  to  know  what  I  can  do." 


388  The  Comedienne 

"It's  a  question  of  that  one  thousand  rubles. 
The  money  is  already  assured,  only  there  is  one 
little  condition  ..." 

"What  is  it?"  Janina  asked  curiously. 

Topolski  drew  closer  to  her,  took  hold  of  her 
hands  in  a  friendly  way  and  only  then 

answered : 

« 

"Miss  Janina — not  only  our  theater,  but 
your  entire  artistic  future  depends  on  this,  so  I 
will  tell  you  frankly  that  there  is  someone  who 
is  ready  to  give  even  two  thousand  rubles,  but 
he  said  that  he  would  give  them  only  to  you 
personally,  otherwise  not  at  all." 

"Who  is  that  person?"  she  asked  uneasily. 

"Kotlicki!" 

Janina  dropped  her  head  and  for  a  while  a 
deep  silence  reigned  in  the  room.  Topolski 
gazed  at  her  uneasily,  while  Majkowska  had 
upon  her  face  an  indescribably  derisive  smile. 

Janina  almost  cried  out  with  pain,  so  repul- 
sive did  that  name  and  proposal  strike  her  and 
after  a  moment  she  arose  from  her  chair  and 
said  in  a  determined  voice:  "No!  I  will  not 
go  to  Kotlicki  .  .  .  and  that  which  you  have 
proposed  to  me  is  insulting  and  outrageous! 
Only  in  the  theater  can  people  lose  so  entirely 
their  moral  sense  as  to  persuade  others  to  base 


The  Comedienne  389 

acts  and  purposely  push  them  into  the  mire 
of  degradation,  so  that  they  themselves  may 
profit.  You  have  miscalculated  this  time,  my 
dear  sir!  I  have  not  fallen  so  low  as  that. 
What  hurts  me  is  that  you  could  think  even 
for  a  moment  that  I  would  agree  to  go  to 
Kotlicki,  to  Kotlicki,  who  is  more  repulsive 
to  me  than  the  basest  reptile!"  she  cried,  car- 
ried away  by  passion. 

II  Miss  Janina!     Let  us  speak  it  over  calmly 
and  sensibly,  without  getting  excited." 

"You  dare  to  tell  me  not  to  get  excited?" 

II 1  must,  for  you  are  simply  inexperienced; 
consequently  that  which  I  ask  of  you  appears 
to  you  as  something  monstrous,   something 
that  will  immediately  sink  you  in  the  mud, 
dishonor  you,  and  shame  you." 

"For  God's  sake,  what  is  it  then,  if  not  just 
that!"  Janina  cried  in  amazement. 

"Let  us  stop  playing  a  comedy,  let  us  drop 
this  game  of  hide-and-seek  and  look  at  things 
as  they  are  and  we  shall  see  that  I  am  not  pro- 
posing anything  out  of  the  ordinary  to  you. 
What  am  I  asking  of  you?  Merely  that  you 
go  to  Kotlicki  for  the  money  which  is  to  be  the 
foundation  of  our  common  future,  the  money 
which  will  create  our  theater  for  us  and  with- 


390  The  Comedienne 

out  which  none  of  us  can  budge  from  Warsaw. 
So  what  is  there  wrong  in  this?  What  wrong 
can  there  be  in  that  which  will  make  almost  all 
of  us  happy?" 

"  What?  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  see 
any  wrong  in  the  fact  that  I,  a  woman  should 
go  alone  to  the  home  of  a  man?  And  for  what 
will  he  give  me  that  one  thousand  or  two  thou- 
sand rubles?" 

"When  you  lived  with  Glogowski  no  one 
regarded  it  as  wrong.  Now,  when  you  are 
living  with  Wladek  who  blames  you  for  it? 
After  all,  what  is  there  so  dreadfully  dishonor- 
able about  it?  We  all  live  that  way;  and  are 
we  thereby  committing  anything  base?  .  .  . 
No!  for  that  is  a  secondary  thing,  for  we  have 
something  more  important  in  our  minds: 
art!" 

"No,  I  will  not  go!"  answered  Janina 
quietly,  depressed  by  the  discovery  that  they 
all  knew  about  her  relation  with  Wladek. 

She  continued  to  listen  to  Topolski  without 
hearing  or  understanding  his  words.  He 
began  to  expostulate  with  her,  to  beg,  and  to 
explain  that  they  were  all  sacrificing  their  very 
lives  for  the  theater,  something  more  than  the 
mere  whim  of  a  woman.  He  pointed  out  to 


The  Comedienne  39* 

her  that  by  her  refusal  she  would  deal  a  mortal 
blow  to  the  newly  organized  company;  that 
they  were  all  counting  on  her  and  would  be 
grateful  to  her  until  death,  for  by  her  sacrifice 
she  would  insure  the  welfare  of  dozens  of  people ; 
that  the  new  theater  would  be  connected  with 
her  name.  He  wished  by  all  means  to  break 
down  her  opposition  which  he  could  not 
understand,  but  Janina  remained  unmoved. 

"  If  my  life  itself  depended  on  it,  I  would  not 
go;  I  would  prefer  to  die!"  said  Janina  with 
final  determination. 

"Well  then,  good-bye!"  answered  Topolski 
angrily. 

Janina  kept  looking  at  him  and  still  wanted 
to  explain  herself  more  fully,  but  Majkowska 
threw  her  cloak  over  her  shoulders  for  her, 
brutally  placed  her  hat  on  her  head,  and 
showering  her  with  insults,  opened  the  door 
widely  before  her. 

Janina  like  an  automaton,  permitted  her 
to  do  what  she  wanted  with  her  and,  like  an 
automaton  she  walked  down  the  stairs  and 
along  the  streets  to  her  home. 

She  felt  sorry  for  the  new  company  and 
regretted  the  prospect  that  she  was  losing  by 
breaking  with  Topolski  but  at  the  same  time 


392  The  Comedienne 

she  felt  an  unbearable  shame  consuming  her  at 
the  thought  that  these  people  should  take  her 
for  such  a  degraded  being  by  daring  to  make 
such  proposals  to  her  and  expecting  that  she 
would  fulfill  them. 

Janina  could  not  calm  herself.  That  night 
she  dreamed  now  of  Kotlicki,  now  of  Wladek, 
then  again  of  the  theater.  She  heard  how  all 
were  cursing  and  reviling  her,  she  saw  as  it 
were,  a  band  of  people  covered  with  rags  and 
with  hatred  glowing  in  their  eyes,  pursuing  her 
with  curses  and  trying  to  beat  her.  In  those 
vaguely  outlined  faces  she  recognized  Mela, 
Topolski,  Mimi,  and  Wawrzecki.  Again,  she 
dreamed  that  she  was  walking  along  the  street 
and  that  everybody  was  staring  at  her  so 
strangely  and  so  horribly  that  she  felt  like 
sinking  into  the  earth  to  avoid  their  glances; 
but  she  had  no  strength  to  move  and  that 
multitude  slowly  filed  by  her  while  Topolski 
stood  pointing  at  her  and  crying  in  a  loud  and 
derisive  voice : ' '  Behold !  she  lived  with  Glogow- 
ski  and  is  now  the  mistress  of  Wladek ! " 

Janina  could  not  bear  that;  she  screamed 
wildly  in  her  sleep  for  she  saw,  as  it  were,  her 
father  approaching  her  with  Krenska  at  his 
side,  pointing  at  her  and  calling:  "She  lived 


The  Comedienne  393 

with  Glogowski  and  now  is  the  mistress  of 
Wladek!" 

"God,  oh  God!"  she  moaned,  writhing  with 
the  torment  of  that  dream. 

And  the  throng  of  familiar  faces  continued 
to  grow.  There  appeared  the  priest  from 
Bukowiec,  the  teachers  of  her  boarding  school, 
her  former  companions  and  Grzesikiewicz. 
All,  all  passed  by  her  hastily  and  stared  at  her 
with  such  a  dreadful,  horrible  smile  that  it 
pierced  her  like  a  dagger  and  scourged  her  like 
a  whip. 

Janina  awoke  with  tear-streaming  eyes  and 
utterly  exhausted. 

Before  the  rehearsal  Wladek  came  to  see 
her.  For  the  first  time  she  threw  herself  into 
his  arms  of  her  own  accord. 

"They  all  know!"  she  whispered,  hiding 
her  face  upon  his  breast. 

Wladek  immediately  surmised  what  she 
meant  and  answered : ' '  Well,  what  of  it?  Is  it 
a  crime?" 

He  sat  down  in  an  ill  humor,  began  to  rub 
his  knee  and  tossed  about  angrily  in  his  chair. 

Janina  noticed  his  mood  and,  forgetting 
about  herself,  inquired:  "What  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Are  you  ill?  " 


394  The  Comedienne 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  only 
I  owe  someone  a  few  rubles  and  am  unable  to 
pay  them  back.  I  can't  ask  my  mother  for 
the  money,  for  she  is  sick  again  and  it  would 
only  finish  her!  Cabinski  will  not  give  it  to 
me  either,  and  I  am  at  my  wit's  end!" 

He  was,  of  course,  lying,  for  he  had  been 
playing  cards  the  whole  night  long  and  had 
lost  all  he  had.  Janina  remembered  the  help 
she  had  received  from  Glogowski,  so  without 
hesitation  she  took  off  her  gold  watch  and 
chain  and  laid  it  before  Wladek. 

"  I  have  no  money.  Take  this  and  pawn  it 
and  pay  your  debt  and  what  you  have  left  over 
bring  me  back,  for  I  also  have  nothing,"  she 
said  heartily. 

"No,  I  shall  not  take  it!  What  do  you 
want  to  do  that  for?  I  really  don't  need  it. 
.  .  .  My  dear  child!  .  .  ."  remonstrated  Wla- 
dek in  his  first  impulse  of  honesty. 

"Please  take  it.  ...  If  you  love  me  you 
will  take  it." 

Wladek  demurred  a  little  while  yet,  but  the 
thought  struck  him  that  with  the  money  he 
might  play  again  to  win  back  what  he  had  lost. 

"No!  What  would  that  look  like!"  he 
whispered,  his  resistance  growing  ever  weaker. 


The  Comedienne  395 

"Go  right  away  and  on  your  way  back  stop 
in  for  me  and  we  shall  have  breakfast 
together,"  urged  Janina. 

Wladek  kissed  her,  as  though  he  were  em- 
barrassed, muttered  something  about  grati- 
tude, but  finally  took  the  watch  and  went  to 
pawn  it. 

He  returned  quickly  with  thirty  rubles.  He 
immediately  borrowed  twenty  from  Janina  and 
wanted  even  to  give  her  a  receipt  for  them, 
but  she  became  so  angry  that  he  had  to  apolo- 
gize to  her.  Then  they  went  out  to  breakfast. 

Thenceforward  they  lived  together.  At  the 
theater  everyone  knew  about  their  relation, 
but  it  was  such  a  usual  thing,  that  no  one  paid 
attention  to  it.  Only  Sowinska  would  sometimes 
taunt  Janina  on  the  score  and  slight  her  and, 
whereas  not  so  long  ago  she  had  done  nothing 
but  praise  Wladek,  she  now  told  the  vilest 
sort  of  tales  about  him.  She  delighted  in  tor- 
menting Janina  in  this  manner,  and  avenged  her- 
self in  this  way  for  the  loss  of  her  son's  love. 

At  last  it  was  announced  that  stage  rehear- 
sals of  Doctor  Robin  were  to  begin.  Wladek 
brought  this  information  to  Janina,  because 
for  a  few  days  she  had  been  very  weak  and  had 
not  left  her  home  at  all.  She  felt  an  oppres- 


396  The  Comedienne 

sive  drowsiness  and  exhaustion  and  an  unbear- 
able pain  in  her  back.  Then  again  such  a 
feeling  of  helplessness  and  discouragement 
would  possess  her  that  she  wanted  to  cry  and 
had  no  desire  to  stir  from  her  bed,  but  lay  for 
whole  days,  gazing  blankly  at  the  ceiling. 
The  humming  sensation  in  her  head  returned 
and  she  suffered  such  a  burning  thirst  that 
nothing  could  quench  it.  However,  on  hear- 
ing that  she  was  to  take  part  in  the  play, 
Janina  immediately  felt  well  and  strong  again. 

She  went  to  the  rehearsal,  trembling  with 
fear,  but  on  seeing  the  person  who  was  to 
play  "Garrick,"  she  quickly  mastered  herself. 
This  amateur  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy, 
skinny,  awkward,  and  simple-minded.  He 
lisped  and  waddled  about  like  a  duck,  but  since 
he  was  the  cousin  of  one  of  the  influential 
journalists  who  backed  him,  he  regarded 
everybody  at  the  theater  with  a  haughty 
expression  and  treated  them  with  an  air  of 
condescension.  The  members  of  the  com- 
pany delicately  ridiculed  him  to  his  face  and 
laughed  loudly  at  him  behind  his  back. 

Everybody  was  present  at  the  rehearsal,  as 
though  they  had  all  agreed  upon  it  beforehand. 

No  sooner  did  Janina  enter  upon  the  stage 


The  Comedienne  397 

than  Majkowska  ostentatiously  withdrew 
behind  the  scenes,  while  Topolski  did  not  so 
much  as  nod  his  head  to  her  in  greeting.  Ja- 
nina  realized  that  relations  with  them  were 
severed  for  good,  but  she  had  no  time  to  think 
about  it,  for  the  rehearsal  began  immediately. 
Despite  the  fact  that  she  had  at  first  intended 
merely  to  recite  her  r61e,  Janina  could  not  now 
refrain  from  marking  it,  at  least  in  its  broad 
outlines. 

She  was  irritated  by  the  fact  that  everyone 
was  looking  at  her  and  that  from  all  directions 
numerous  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  ridicule  in  their 
glances  and  derision  on  all  those  lips,  so  at 
moments  she  would  start  nervously  and  break 
out  with  all  the  force  of  her  temperament,  or 
again,  she  would  speak  too  softly. 

Majkowska  stood  there  hissing  and  laughing 
together  with  Zarnecka  and  loudly  voicing  her 
opinion  of  Janina's  acting.  Topolski,  the  stage- 
manager,  made  her  leave  and  reenter  the 
stage  several  times,  for  in  her  excitement,  she 
did  not  enter  properly. 

Janina  knew  what  they  were  doing,  so  she 
did  not  take  very  much  to  heart  Mela's  ridi- 
cule or  Topolski's  pedantic  instructions.  She 


398  The  Comedienne 

played  on  and  rendered  her  r61e  forcibly,  if  a 
little  unevenly. 

There  followed  a  characteristic  silence; 
nobody  laughed  nor  jested  loudly . 

The  stage-director  walked  up  and  down 
behind  the  scenes  contentedly  rubbing  his 
hands  and  grunting:  "Good,  good,  but  she 
does  not  yet  put  enough  pathos  into  it!" 

"Why,  don't  you  hear  she  is  already  shout- 
ing, not  speaking!"  Majkowska  jeered  at  him. 

"My  dear  madame!  You  go  into  convul- 
sions on  the  stage,  and  none  of  us,  out  of 
politeness,  blames  you  for  it,"  answered 
Stanislawski  for  his  friend. 

"Not  that  way!  Who  waves  his  arms  in 
that  manner?  Are  you  trying  to  make  a 
windmill  of  yourself?"  cried  Topolski. 

"Don't  discourage  her,  remember  it  is  her 
first  rehearsal ! "  cried  Cabinska  from  the  seats. 

' '  You  walk  about  the  stage  like  a  goose ! ' '  again 
remarked  the  irritated  Topolski  to  Janina. 

"She  wouldn't  be  at  all  bad  as  a  washer- 
woman!" hissed  Mela. 

In  spite  of  all,  although  she  felt  tears  of 
wrath  rising  to  her  eyes,  Janina  played  on, 
without  letting  herself  be  confused  and  never 
for  a  moment  losing  her  presence  of  mind. 


The  Comedienne  399 


When  she  had  finished,  Cabinska  ostenta- 
tiously kissed  her  and  began  to  praise  her 
aloud  so  that  Majkowska  could  hear:  "I 
congratulate  you  and  have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  play  the  part  excellently!" 

"Work  out  the  details  a  little  better," 
Stanislawski  advised  her. 

1 '  Why,  this  is  merely  a  rehearsal !  I  already 
have  the  entire  character  worked  out  in  my 
head." 

"We  shall  now  have  a  real  heroine,  for  one 
that  is  beautiful  and  talented  at  the  same 
time!"  cried  Rosinska  in  a  very  loud  voice. 

Majkowska  glared  at  her  furiously,  but  did 
not  reply. 

Janina  felt  so  happy  that  she  had  a  desire  to 
kiss  everybody. 

In  two  days  the  performance  was  to  take 
place.  That  interval  was  like  one  immense 
vista  of  light  in  which  Janina  seemed  eagerly 
absorbed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
entirely  satisfied. 

"At  last!  At  last!  Now,  all  my  poverty 
and  humiliation  will  end!"  Janina  whispered 
rapturously  to  herself.  She  thought  that  a 
repertory  of  roles  would  immediately  be 
assigned  to  her.  She  gave  free  reign  to  her 


400  The  Comedienne 

imagination  and  already  saw  herself  upon 
some  pinnacle.  She  was  already  in  that 
promised  land  of  powerful  emotions  about 
which  she  dreamed  every  day — in  that  realm 
that  swarmed  before  her  eyes  with  a  stately 
throng  of  heroic  figures,  superhuman  passions, 
and  dazzling  beauty,  a  realm  in  which  there 
reigned  a  perfect  harmony  between  dreams 
and  reality. 

Janina  smiled  with  pity  at  those  days  of 
want  and  poverty,  as  though  she  were  bidding 
farewell  to  them  forever.  Everything  that 
surrounded  her,  even  Wladek,  paled  into 
insignificance  before  her  fascinated  eyes. 

A  thousand  times  she  repeated  the  role  of 
"Mary."  She  sat  for  hours  at  a  time  before 
the  mirror,  practicing  the  appropriate  facial 
expression  and  became  feverish  with  impa- 
tience while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  mo- 
mentous day.  At  night,  Janina  would  sit  half 
asleep  in  her  bed  and  gaze  before  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  the  crowded 
theater  and  the  representatives  of  the  press, 
that  she  heard  the  quiet  murmurs  of  the  pub- 
lic, saw  their  enraptured  glances,  and  that  she 
entered  the  stage  and  played.  .  .  .  Half 
unconsciously  she  would  repeat  the  words  of 


The  Comedienne  401 

her  r61es  kindle  with  ardor,  declaim  them  with 
exaltation.  Then,  overcome  by  drowsiness 
again,  she  would  smile  through  tears  of  happi- 
ness for  she  heard  most  distinctly  that  well- 
known  and  thrilling  thunder  of  applause  and 
cries  of:  "Orlowska!  Orlowska!"  And  with 
that  smile  on  her  face  she  would  fall  asleep 
and  wake  again  to  continue  her  dreams. 

Janina  sold  whatever  she  could  to  buy  the 
appropriate  costume  for  her  part.  With  a 
smile  of  contentment  she  would  drive  away 
Wladek  so  that  he  might  not  interfere  with  her. 

On  that  day  which  was  to  be  for  her  so 
important  and  decisive,  Cabinski,  before  the 
general  rehearsal,  took  away  her  part  and  gave 
it  to  Majkowska. 

Intrigue  and  envy  had  gained  their  end. 
Cabinski  was  forced  to  yield,  for  Topolski 
had  threatened  to  leave  the  company  immedi- 
ately unless  he  took  away  the  role  from  Janina 
and  gave  it  to  Majkowska.  It  was  the  way  he 
chose  to  avenge  himself  because  of  Janina's 
refusal  to  go  to  Kotlicki. 

Struck  to  the  very  heart,  Janina  almost  lost 
her  reason  under  this  blow.  She  began  to 
stagger  on  her  feet  and  felt  that  the  whole 
theater  was  whirling  about  her  and  that  every- 


402  The  Comedienne 

thing  was  sinking  with  her  into  a  bottomless 
darkness.  She  cast  a  glance  of  unspeakable 
grief  at  all  those  about  her,  as  though  seeking 
for  help,  but  on  the  faces  of  most  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  company  there  was  an  expression 
of  merriment  over  what  they  thought  was  a 
splendid  joke,  and  the  beastly  joy  of  cretins 
at  the  suppression  of  talent.  They  mocked 
the  defeated  aspirant  with  their  glances;  burn- 
ing taunts  and  jibes  began  to  fall  from  all 
sides  like  stones  upon  her  soul  crushed  by 
an  unexpected  blow,  Brutal  laughs  arose, 
scourging  her  as  with  a  whip  and  all  the  base- 
ness of  human  delight  in  the  pain  of  others 
found  its  object  and  outlet. 

And  Janina  stood  there  without  a  word  or 
motion,  with  that  dreadful  pain  in  her  heart 
in  which  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  arteries 
had  been  torn  open  and  were  flooding  it  with 
the  blood  of  despair. 

She  collected  enough  strength  to  ask:  "  Why 
may  I  not  play  the  part?" 

11  Because  you  may  not  and  that  settles  it! " 
answered  Cabinski  curtly.  And  he  immedi- 
ately left  the  theater,  because  he  dreaded  a 
scene  and  felt  a  trifle  sorry  for  Janina. 

She  remained  standing  behind  the  scenes 


The  Comedienne  4°3 

with  that  overwhelming  and  sharp  pain  of 
disappointment  tearing  at  her  soul.  She  felt 
such  an  emptiness  and  loneliness  that  at 
moments  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were 
all  alone  in  the  world  and  that  something  had 
pinned  her  to  the  earth  with  an  immense 
weight  and  was  crushing  her  down,  that  she 
was  falling  with  lightning  speed  to  the  bottom 
of  some  deep  abyss  where  a  grayish-green 
whirlpool  was  dimly  roaring. 

Her  thoughts  and  feelings  were  breaking 
and  snapping  under  the  tremendous  strain 
and  tears  of  hopeless  abandonment  flooded 
her  eyes.  She  went  to  the  dressing-room 
and  sat  down  in  the  darkest  corner. 

Her  dreams  were  crumbling  to  pieces :  those 
wonderful  realms  were  vanishing  and  sinking 
away  in  the  misty  distance,  those  enchanting 
visions  were  waving  like  torn  rags  in  her  brain 
and  soul. 

The  dull  grayness  of  the  dirty  walls  and 
decorations  about  her  and  the  throng  of 
shabby,  jeering  beggars  seemed  to  saturate  and 
oppress  her  whole  being.  She  felt  so  utterly 
weary,  broken,  sick,  and  helpless  that  she  went 
out  into  the  hall  to  look  for  Wladek  to  take  her 
home,  but  she  could  not  find  him.  He  had 


404  The  Comedienne 

cautiously  disappeared,  so  Janina  went  back 
to  the  dressing-room  and  sat  there  in  a 
daze. 

"Beware  of  dreams!  Beware  of  water!" 
she  repeated  to  herself,  remembering  with 
difficulty  who  had  told  her  that.  And  sud- 
denly, Janina  became  pale  and  reeled  back  for 
such  a  chaos  began  to  whirl  in  her  brain  that 
she  thought  she  would  go  mad.  .  .  . 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  in  a  senseless  torpor 
and  wept  without  being  able  to  restrain  her- 
self, for  after  partly  regaining  her  conscious- 
ness the  memory  of  all  her  sufferings  and  dis- 
appointments came  back  to  her  again.  At 
last  utterly  worn  out,  and,  lulled  by  the  silence 
that  enveloped  the  theater  after  the  rehearsal, 
she  fell  asleep. 

She  was  awakened  by  Rosinska  who  on  that 
day  had  come  earlier  to  the  dressing-room,  for 
she  was  to  begin  the  play.  When  she  saw 
the  sleeping  girl,  the  older  actress  was  moved 
to  pity.  The  remaining  shreds  of  her  woman- 
hood covered  by  the  artificiality  of  theatrical 
life,  awoke  in  her  at  the  sight  of  that  pale  face, 
worn  by  poverty  and  dejection. 

"Miss  Janina — "  whispered  Rosinska 
tenderly. 


The  Comedienne  405 

Janina  arose  and  began  nervously  to  wipe 
away  the  traces  of  tears  from  her  face. 

"Have  you  not  seen  Mr.  Niedzielski?"  she 
asked  Rosinska. 

"No.  My  poor  child,  so  that  is  what  they 
have  done  to  you! — But  you  must  not  take  it 
so  much  to  heart.  If  you  want  to  be  an 
artist  you  must  bear  a  great  deal,  suffer  a 
great  deal.  My  dear,  if  you  only  knew  what 
I  had  to  go  through  and  still  have  to.  If  you 
wanted  to  grieve  over  all  the  afflictions  that 
come  to  you,  become  irritated  over  all  the 
gossip  they  spread  about  you  or  weep  over 
every  intrigue  in  which  they  try  to  entangle 
you,  you  would  have  neither  any  tears,  nor 
eyes,  nor  strength  left!  There's  no  use  crying 
over  it,  for  things  can't  be  any  different  in  the 
theater!  Moreover,  you  haven't  lost  any- 
thing by  it !  That  one  disappointment  makes 
you  richer  by  one  more  experience." 

"Perhaps  they  are  right,  after  all.  I  must 
have  no  talent  whatever,  if  Cabinski  took 
away  the  r61e  from  me.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  just  because  you  have  a  talent  that 
they  played  this  trick  on  you.  I  heard  what 
the  cousin  of  that  amateur  said  at  the  first 
rehearsal." 


4°6  The  Comedienne 

"What  good  will  all  that  do  me,  when  I 
can't  play  and  have  nothing  to  live  on." 

"That  is  all  the  doing  of  Majkowska.  She 
forced  Cabinski  to  take  the  role  away  from 
you." 

"I  know  she  bears  me  a  grudge,  but  I  can't 
conceive  why  she  should  revenge  herself  in 
such  an  inhuman  way!" 

"You  don't  know  her  yet.  ...  I  don't 
know  what  you  two  quarreled  about,  but  I  do 
know  that  when  she  saw  you  on  the  stage  at 
the  first  rehearsal  she  became  so  greatly 
afraid  that  you  might  eclipse  her  that  she 
immediately  began  to  lay  plans  for  your 
undoing.  I  saw  how  she  hung  about  that 
amateur,  how  she  fawned  upon  his  cousin  and 
Cabinski,  how  she  kissed  the  hands  of  the 
directress!  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes!  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  anyone  degrading  one's  self 
in  that  manner?  But  she  attained  her  end. 
She  has  already  done  away  with  many  another 
in  the  same  way.  You  probably  do  not  know 
what  I,  an  actress  of  long  standing  and  with 
so  large  a  repertory,  have  to  suffer  on  her 
account.  You  could  not  notice  what  was  being- 
schemed,  for  it  was  all  done  so  quickly  that 
besides  myself,  probably  no  one  else  knew 


The  Comedienne  4°7 

about  it.  Such  a  creature  as  she  always  has 
luck!  But  wait  I  will  fix  her  to-day!  I'll 
pay  her  back  for  the  both  of  us! " 

The  dressing-room  slowly  began  to  fill  with 
actresses,  their  noisy  chatter  and  the  smell 
of  powder  and  pigments  that  were  being 
warmed  over  the  candles.  They  were  begin- 
ning to  dress. 

At  last  Majkowska  came  in,  stately  and 
triumphant,  with  a  bouquet  in  her  hands  and 
roses  in  her  corsage.  Seeing  Janina  sitting 
alongside  of  Rosinska  she  frowned  and  cried 
angrily:  "  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  this  is  not  the 
dressing-room  of  the  chorus  girls." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  you  pantomime  artist ! " 
retorted  Rosinska. 

"I  am  not  speaking  to  you." 

"But  I  am  answering  you.  Please  stay 
here,"  she  said,  turning  to  Janina  who- wanted 
to  leave. 

" Don't  you  begin  with  me!  Do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  dress'  together  with  novices, 
eh?" 

"Wait,  you'll  get  a  separate  cell  with  a 
strait-jacket  of  your  own.  You  can't  miss  it." 

"Shut  your  mouth!  You  forty-year-old 
simp." 


408  The  Comedienne 

"My  age  is  none  of  your  business,  you 
ruined  heroine!" 

"She  looks  like  a  drenched  hen  on  the  stage 
and  yet  dares  to  raise  her  voice  here." 

Everybody  in  the  dressing-room  was  shak- 
ing with  laughter,  while  Rosinska  and  Maj- 
kowska  began  to  quarrel  ever  more  vulgarly, 
without  however  interrupting  for  a  moment 
their  make-up  and  hasty  dressing. 

Janina  listened  to  the  quarrel  in  silence. 
She  hardly  felt  any  grievance  toward  Maj- 
kowska  for  depriving  her  of  the  r61e,  but  only 
a  physical  aversion  to  her  person.  Majkow- 
ska  now  appeared  to  her  so  filthy,  brazen,  and 
base  that  even  her  voice  sounded  disgusting. 

Only  when  they  began  to  play  Doctor  Robin, 
Janina  stood  behind  the  scenes  to  see  what 
would  be  done  with  her  r61e.  It  is  impossible 
to  describe  that  subtle,  excruciating  pain  that 
rent  her  soul  when  she  saw  Majkowska  as 
"Mary"  on  the  stage.  She  felt  that  that 
other  woman  was  tearing  out  piecemeal  from 
her  brain  and  heart  every  word,  every  gesture, 
every  pose  and  accent. 

"They  are  mine,  mine!"  she  breathed, 
unable  to  help  herself.  "Mine!"  And  she 
devoured  Mela  with  her  eyes  and  then  closed 


The  Comedienne  4°9 

them  so  that  she  might  not  behold  any  more 
of  it,  nor  torment  herself  with  remembering 
the  role  as  she  had  conceived  it.  "The 
thief!"  she  finally  whispered  so  loudly  that 
Majkowska  trembled  on  the  stage. 

Rosinska  sat  behind  the  scenes  on  the  other 
side  of  the  stage.  As  soon  as  Majkowska 
entered  there  began  a  scene  upon  the  stage  for 
she  repeated  each  word  after  Mela  in  an  under- 
tone and  in  a  false  intonation,  laughed  aloud 
at  her  acting,  ridiculed  and  mimicked  her 
gestures. 

At  first  Majkowska  paid  no  attention  to 
this,  but  finally  she  could  no  longer  refrain 
from  looking  behind  the  scenes  and  could  not 
help  hearing  that  raillery  and  mimicry  of 
herself.  She  could  not  catch  the  prompter's 
words  and  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  while  Rosinska  continued  to  crowd 
her  ever  more  mercilessly. 

Majkowska  grew  furious  with  impotent 
rage,  but  her  playing  was  becoming  worse  all 
the  time  and  she  felt  it,  and  began  to  throw 
herself  about  the  stage  as  though  she  were 
obsessed.  Behind  every  scene  she  saw  faces 
laughing  at  her;  even  Dobek  in  his  box  stopped 
his  mouth  with  his  hand  so  heartily  amused 


4*0  The  Comedienne 


was  he  by  what  was  going  on.  That  deprived 
Majkowksa  of  the  rest  of  her  self-control. 

As  soon  as  she  left  the  stage  she  threw  her- 
self at  Rosinska  with  her  fists.  There  arose 
such  a  rumpus  that  the  men  had  to  part  the 
two  actresses,  for  they  had  begun  pulling  the 
hair  out  of  each  other's  wigs.  Majkowska 
was  forcibly  led  to  the  dressing-room.  She 
raged  like  a  mad  woman  and  got  an  attack  of 
hysteria.  She  smashed  mirrors,  tore  up  cos- 
tumes, and  tossed  about  so  violently  that  they 
had  to  call  a  doctor  and  tie  her  hands  and 
feet. 

Cabinska  pulled  out  the  rest  of  his  hair  in 
despair,  but  the  actors  laughed  in  their  dress- 
ing-rooms and  enjoyed  themselves  immensely. 

The  curtain  had  to  be  lowered  in  the  middle 
of  the  play,  and  Topolski,  almost  pale  with 
anger  announced  to  the  audience : '  *  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen!  Because  of  the  sudden  and  seri- 
ous indisposition  of  Miss  Majkowska,  Doctor 
Robin  cannot  be  concluded.  The  following 
play  on  the  program  will  immediately  begin." 

Janina  despite  the  satisfaction  that  she  felt 
at  the  fiasco  of  her  enemy,  began  to  feel  sorry 
for  Majkowska  when  she  saw  her  senseless 
and  suffering.  She  was  not  yet  enough  of  an 


The  Comedienne  411 

actress  to  feel  indifferent  to  it,  sc  she  went 
to  her,  but  seeing  in  the  room  the  doctor,  and 
Cabinski,  who  was  quarreling  with  Rosinska 
she  hastily  retreated. 

Rosinska,  Wolska,  and  Mirowska  declared 
outright  to  Cabinski  that  if  Majkowska 
remained  in  the  company  they  would  leave  it 
the  very  next  day. 

Cabinski  fled,  but  he  next  ran  into  Stanis- 
lawski  and  Krzykiewicz  who  told  him  the 
same  with  the  addition  that  they  would  not 
remain  .a  day  longer  with  him  for  they  were 
ashamed  to  be  in  a  company  where  such  public 
scandals  occurred. 

The  director  almost  went  crazy,  for  he  was 
not  prepared  for  such  a  thing.  He  tried  to 
squirm  out  of  it  as  best  as  he  could,  made 
promises,  gave  orders  on  the  treasurer  to  all 
who  wanted  them  and,  spying  Janina  called 
aloud  to  her  with  the  object  of  mollifying 
somewhat  his  previous  conduct :  ' '  If  you  want 
something  from  the  treasurer,  I  will  give  you 
an  order,  for  I  must  leave  right  away." 

Janina  asked  for  five  rubles.  He  did  not 
even  so  much  as  make  a  wry  face  but  gave  it  to 
her  and  immediately  ran  off  to  Pepa,  but  on 
the  way  he  was  again  tackled  by  that  amateur 


The  Comedienne 


and  his  cousin  and  things  began  to  grow  so 
noisy  behind  the  scenes  that  the  public  lis- 
tened uneasily,  wondering  what  was  the  matter. 

The  performance  was  concluded  amid  the 
silence  of  the  audience;  not  one  handclap 
sounded. 

Janina,  on  leaving  the  box  office  with  the 
money,  met  Niedzielska  hobbling  slowly 
along. 

She  stopped  and  wanted  to  greet  her,  but 
Niedzielska  looked  at  her  threateningly  and 
barked:  "What  do  you  want,  you!  you!" 
She  coughed  violently,  threatened  Janina  with 
her  cane  with  which  she  supported  herself,  and 
dragged  herself  on. 

Janina  unconsciously  looked  about  her,  to 
see  if  she  could  spy  Wladek  anywhere,  but  he 
had  already  vanished.  She  had  not  seen  him 
since  that  morning. 

Wladek  purposely  avoided  her,  for  he  had 
reached  the  decisive  conclusion  that  it  was 
better  to  have  intercourse  only  with  ordinary 
women,  for  with  them  it  was  not  necessary  to 
restrain  one's  self,  to  pretend,  and  to  be 
continually  forced  to  take  everything  into 
account.  Moreover,  Janina  had  made  a  fiasco 
as  an  actress  and  continued  to  be  nothing  bu 


The  Comedienne  4T3 

a  chorus  girl,  and  his  mother  had  threatened 
to  disinherit  him  because  of  her. 

Janina  gazed  for  a  long  time  after  the  old 
woman,  who,  no  doubt,  was  going  to  seek  her 
son,  and  then  she  went  slowly  home. 


CHAPTER  X 

JANINA  lay  sick  in  bed. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were  at  the 
bottom  of  a  well  and,  from  those  depths  into 
which  they  had  shoved  her  she  could  see  only 
the  pale,  distant  blue  of  the  sky,  sometimes 
complete  darkness,  sometimes  the  twinkling 
of  the  stars,  then  again  some  wings,  flying 
past,  would  cast  a  shadow  over  her  eyes  so 
that  she  lost  knowledge  of  everything.  She 
only  felt  that  those  eddies  of  life  without, 
its  voices,  noises,  cries,  fears,  and  despair 
oozed  down  the  smooth  sides  of  the  well  and 
flowed  into  her  soul  as  into  a  reservoir,  pene- 
trating her  whole  soul  with  an  unconscious 
pain  which  she,  however,  felt  with  every 
fiber  of  her  being. 

The  days  dragged  on  as  slowly  as  though 
they  were  strung  on  the  chain  of  ages,  as 
slowly  as  they  drag  on  for  those  who  have  lost 
everything,  even  hope. 

Janina  sent  word  to  the  director  that  she 
414 


The  Comedienne  4T5 

was  sick,  but  no  one  came  to  see  her.  Cabin- 
ska  merely  sent  Wicek  to  say  that  Yadzia  was 
longing  for  her  piano  lessons,  and  nothing 
more. 

There,  they  were  playing,  learning,  creating 
something  and  living!  Here,  she  lay  sunken 
in  a  complete  apathy,  like  a  crushed  soul  that 
hardly  dares  at  moments  to  think  that  it  still 
exists  and  then  again  sinks  into  an  agony 
which  cannot,  however,  end  in  the  oblivion  of 
death. 

Janina  was  not  really  physically  ill,  for 
nothing  pained  her,  but  was  dying  from  inner 
exhaustion.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she 
had  spent  the  whole  store  of  her  strength  in 
those  three  months  of  theatrical  life  and  that 
she  was  now  dying  from  the  hunger  of  her  soul 
that  had  nothing  left  with  which  to  keep  it 
alive. 

Throughout  those  long  days,  throughout 
that  endless  agony  of  silent  nights  she  slowly 
pondered  the  nature  of  everyone  whom  she 
had  met  here;  and  that  slow,  but  entirely  one- 
sided, cognizance  of  her  environment  filled  her 
with  bitter  sadness. 

''There  is  no  happiness  on  earth  .  .  ." 
Janina  whispered  to  herself,  and  it  seemed  to 


4l6  The  Comedienne 

her  that  hitherto  she  had  had  a  cataract  blind- 
ing her  eyes  which  fate  had  now  brutally  torn 
off.  She  now  saw,  but  there  were  moments  in 
which  she  yearned  for  her  former  blindness  and 
groping  in  the  dark. 

" There  is  no  happiness!"  she  repeated 
bitterly,  and  rebellious  pessimism  mastered 
her  soul  entirely. 

Everywhere  Janina  saw  only  evil  and  base- 
ness. There  passed  before  her  the  forms  of  all 
her  acquaintances  and  she  scornfully  thrust 
them  all  down  into  one  pit,  not  excluding 
Wladek.  He  had  dropped  in  only  once  to  see 
her  and  began  to  excuse  himself  for  his 
absence,  but  she  impatiently  interrupted  him 
and  asked  him  to  go  away. 

She  already  knew  him  well  enough  and 
wondered  as  the  thought  occurred  to  her  that 
she  had  ever  loved  him. 

"  Why  ?    Why  ?  "  Janina  asked  herself. 

Shame  and  regret  began  to  fill  her  at  the 
thought  that  she  had  fallen  so  low  and  for 
him.  He  now  appeared  to  her  miserable  and 
common.  She  could  not  forgive  herself. 

"What  fatality  placed  him  in  my  path  of 
life?"  Janina  asked  herself  further.  In  her 
own  eyes  she  felt  deeply  humiliated. 


The  Comedienne  4*7 

"I  did  not  love  him,"  she  pondered  and  a 
shudder  of  disgust  shook  her.  He  began  to 
grow  hateful  to  her. 

And  the  theater  also,  lost  a  great  deal  of  its 
glamor  for  Janina  in  those  hours  of  reflection. 
She  now  looked  at  it  through  the  prism  of 
those  continual  quarrels  and  behind-the-scenes 
intrigues,  through  the  vanity  of  its  priests  and 
through  her  own  disappointments. 

" It  is  not  as  I  used  to  see  it  formerly! "  she 
lamented. 

Everything  became  increasingly  smaller  and 
grayer  to  Janina's  inner  vision.  Everywhere 
she  began  to  discover  rags,  sham,  and  false- 
hood. People  obscured  everything  for  her 
with  their  baseness  and  pettiness.  She  no 
longer  desired  to  reign  as  a  queen  upon  the 
stage. 

"What  is  that?  What  is  that?"  she  whis- 
pered to  herself  and  saw  a  motley,  heterogene- 
ous public  that  was  indifferent  to  the  quality 
of  a  play.  It  came  to  the  theater  to  amuse 
itself  and  laugh;  it  hankered  for  clownishness 
and  the  circus. 

"What  is  that?  Comedianism  for  profit 
and  for  the  amusement  of  the  multitude," 
Janina  answered  herself.  The  stage  now 


27 


The  Comedienne 

appeared  to  her  as  a  real  arena  for  the  feats  of 
clowns  and  trained  monkeys. 

"I  wanted  to  be  an  entertainer  of  the  mob! 
And  where  does  art  come  in?  What  is  pure 
art,  the  ideal,  for  which  hundreds  of  people 
sacrifice  their  lives? 

"What  is  it  and  where  is  it  to  be  found?" 
she  asked  herself  uneasily,  beginning  to  see 
that  everything  is  rather  an  amusement  than 
an  aim  in  itself. 

Literature,  poetry,  music,  painting,  and  all 
the  fine  arts  passed  before  Janina's  mind. 
She  could  not  separate  their  utilitarian  aspect 
from  their  purely  artistic  one.  She  saw  that 
all  artists  played,  sang,  and  created  only  to 
amuse  that  vast,  brutal,  mob.  For  it  they 
sacrificed  their  lives,  their  strength,  and  their 
dreams;  for  it  they  struggled  and  suffered, 
lived  and  died. 

To  Janina  that  vast  multitude  of  Grze- 
sikiewiczs,  Kotlickis,  and  counselors,  appeared 
in  its  ignorance  and  low  instincts  like  a  cruel 
master  who,  with  a  half -mocking,  half -favor- 
ing smile,  looked  down  upon  that  entire  human 
throng  of  artists  that  painted,  played,  recited, 
created,  and  begged  with  a  nervous  look  for  his 
favor  and  recognition. 


The  Comedienne  4J9 

And  she  saw  one  immense  wave  of  human 
beings  spreading  over  the  wide  plains  of  earth, 
swaying  slowly  and  going  nowhere ;  and  on  the 
other  side  all  those  artists  who  were  passing 
through  the  mob  in  all  directions,  loudly  pro- 
claiming something,  singing  with  inspired 
voices,  pointing  to  the  expanse  of  heaven, 
calling  attention  to  the  stars,  trying  to  bring 
about  some  order  in  this  disorderly,  teeming 
multitude,  opening  paths  among  it,  imploring 
it  in  deep  tones.  But  the  multitude  either 
laughed  or  merely  nodded  its  assent,  but 
did  not  budge  from  its  place.  It  surged 
and  pushed  about  and  trampled  the  artists 
underfoot. 

"What  is  that?  Why?"  Janina  asked  her- 
self, greatly  terrified.  "If  they  do  not  need 
us  then  we  ought  to  let  them  alone,  keeping 
ourselves  apart  from  them  and  living  only  for 
ourselves  and  with  ourselves. "  But  again 
everything  became  confused  in  her  mind  and 
she  could  not  conceive  how  it  would  be 
possible  to  live  apart  from  the  rest  of  human- 
ity and  concluded  that  it  would  not  be  worth 
living  at  all  in  that  way.  Her  thoughts 
whirled  in  confusion  through  her  brain. 

Sowinska,  who  now  took  care  of  her  with 


420  The  Comedienne 

motherly  solicitude,  came  in  and  interrupted 
her  frenzied  thoughts. 

"Why  don't  you  go  home?"  she  advised 
Janina  sincerely. 

"Never!"  answered  Janina. 

"Why  should  you  wear  yourself  out  in  that 
way?  You  will  rest  a  little,  gain  new  strength, 
and  return  again  to  the  theater." 

"No,"  answered  Janina  quietly. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  old  Mrs.  Nied- 
zielska  was  here  to  see  me  yesterday.*' 

"Do  you  know  her?"  asked  the  younger 
woman. 

"  Not  at  all,  but  she  had  some  business  with 
me.  Oh,  she  is  a  sly  fox,  that  old  hag!" 
added  Sowinska. 

"Perhaps  she  is  a  bit  too  miserly,  but 
otherwise  she  is  a  rather  honest  woman." 

"Honest?  You'll  find  out  yet  for  yourself 
how  honest  she  is." 

"Why?"  asked  Janina,  but  without  curios- 
ity, for  it  didn't  at  all  interest  her  now. 

"I  will  only  say  this  much  .  .  .  that  she 
does  not  love  you  in  the  least,  not  in  the 
least!" 

"That's  strange,  for  I  never  did  her  any 
wrong,"  answered  Janina. 


The  Comedienne  421 

Sowinska's  demeanor  suddenly  changed,  for 
she  glanced  angrily  at  Janina  and  wanted 
to  say  something  sharp,  but  seeing  that 
Janina' s  face  wore  an  expression  of  complete 
indifference,  she  refrained  and  left  the  room. 

Janina  thought  about  Bukowiec. 

"I  have  no  home,"  she  thought,  even  with- 
out bitterness.  "The  whole  wide  world  is  my 
home,"  she  added,  but  suddenly  remembered 
what  Grzesikiewicz  had  told  her  about  her 
father  and  stirred  as  though  some  hidden  pain 
had  awakened  in  her.  An  uneasiness,  not 
such  as  besets  one  on  the  eve  of  some  event, 
but  such  as  one  feels  on  remembering  some 
good  that  one  has  lost  forever,  filled  Janina' s 
heart.  It  was  the  pain  of  the  past  like  the 
quiet  remembrance  of  the  dead. 

But  those  memories  of  Bukowiec  and  those 
lonely  nights  when  she  dreamed,  forgetting 
about  everything,  and  created  for  herself  such 
wondrous  worlds,  now  flashed  upon  her  mind 
in  all  their  vividness.  Only  the  memory  of 
that  exuberant  and  majestic  nature,  those  vast 
fields,  and  those  silent  glens  full  of  murmurs 
and  bird  songs,  verdure,  and  wild  grandeur 
swathed  Janina  in  melancholy  and  lulled  her 
weary  soul  with  its  charms. 


422  The  Comedienne 

The  woods  in  which  she  was  reared,  those 
dim  depths  full  of  unspeakable  wonders,  those 
gigantic  trees  to  which  she  was  united  by  a 
thousand  affinities,  outlined  themselves  in  her 
mind  ever  more  powerfully.  Janina  longed 
for  them  now  and  listened  through  the  nights, 
for  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  the  grave 
autumnal  murmur  of  the  forest,  the  somnolent 
rustling  of  its  branches.  It  seemed  that  she 
felt  within  herself  the  slow,  endless  swaying 
of  those  giant  trees,  the  soft  motions  of  the 
verdure  bathed  in  golden  sunlight,  the  joyous 
cry  of  the  birds,  the  fragrance  of  the  young 
pine  saplings  and  juniper  bushes — the  whole 
leisurely  life  of  nature. 

Janina  lay  for  whole  hours  at  a  time,  without 
a  word,  thought,  or  motion,  for  her  soul  was 
there  in  those  verdant  woods.  She  wandered 
over  the  meadows  covered  with  wild  rasp- 
berries and  waving  grass,  strayed  across  the 
fields  where  the  rye  grew  high  like  a  wood, 
swaying  and  murmuring  in  the  breeze  and 
gleaming  with  dew  in  the  sunlight,  penetrated 
the  groves  full  of  the  pungent  smell  of  the 
resin.  She  followed  each  road,  each  bound- 
ary, each  wood  path,  greeted  everything  that 
lived  there  and  cried  out  to  the  fields,  woods, 


The  Comedienne  423 

the  hills,  and  the  sky:  "I  have  come!  I  have 
come! "  smiling  as  though  she  had  found  a  lost 
happiness. 

These  invigorating  memories  restored  Ja- 
nina's  health  almost  entirely.  On  the  eighth 
day  she  felt  strong  enough  for  a  walk.  She 
was  longing  for  the  fresh  air,  the  verdure 
unsoiled  by  city  dust,  the  sunlight,  and 
the  vast  open  spaces.  She  felt  that  the  city 
was  stifling  her,  that  here,  at  every  step,  she 
had  to  limit  her  own  ego  and  continually 
struggle  against  all  the  barriers  of  custom  and 
dependence. 

Janina  passed  through  the  Place  of  Arms 
and,  going  beyond  the  Citadel,  she  walked 
along  the  damp  sand  dunes  to  Bielany. 

An  unbroken  silence  enveloped  her  on  all 
sides.  The  sun  shone  brightly  and  warmly, 
but  from  the  water  there  blew  a  brisk,  invigor- 
ating breeze. 

She  gazed  at  the  quiet  river  flecked  with 
spots  of  white  foam  and  at  the  indistinct  silhou- 
ettes of  boats  trailing  along  in  midstream.  She 
breathed  in  deeply  the  calm  that  surrounded 
her  and  felt  a  resurgence  of  her  wasted  strength. , 

Janina  lay  down  upon  the  yellowish  sand  of 
the  bank  and,  gazing  at  the  gleaming  expanse 


424  The  Comedienne 

of  waters,  forgot  everything.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  though  she  were  flowing  on  with  the 
current  of  the  river,  passing  the  shores,  houses, 
and  woods  and  hurrying  on  continually  into  a 
blue  and  boundless  distance  like  the  illimit- 
able expanse  of  heaven  that  hung  over  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  no  longer 
remembered  anything,  but  felt  only  the 
ineffable  delight  of  rocking  with  the  waves. 

Janina  suddenly  awoke  from  that  half 
dream,  for  there  passed  near  her  an  old  man 
with  a  fishing  rod  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at 
her  in  passing,  sat  down  almost  beside  her  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  river,  cast  his  line  into  the 
water  and  waited. 

He  had  so  honest  a  face  that  she  felt  a  desire 
to  speak  to  him  and  was  thinking  how  to 
begin,  when  he  addressed  her  first:  "Would 
you  like  to  take  a  trip  over  to  the  other  side?  " 

Janina  glanced  at  him  questiongly. 

"Aha!  I  see  that  we  don't  understand 
each  other.  I  thought  that  you  wanted  to 
drown  yourself,"  he  said. 

"I  wasn't  even  thinking  about  death,"  she 
replied  quietly. 

1 '  Ha !  ha !  It  would  be  an  unexpected  honor 
for  the  river." 


The  Comedienne  A2 5 

He  adjusted  his  fishing  tackle  and  became 
silent,  centering  all  his  attention  on  the  fish 
that  had  begun  to  circle  about  the  bait  and 
the  hook. 

A  deeper  silence,  as  it  were,  diffused  itself 
about  and  began  to  fill  Janina's  soul  with  a 
blissful  calm.  She  felt  that  an  immense 
goodness  was  pervading  her,  that  the  majesty 
of  that  expanse  of  heaven,  of  the  waters  and 
the  verdure  was  uplifting  her  and  drawing 
from  her  breast  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving  and 
the  pure  joy  of  living,  free  from  all  earthly 
things. 

The  old  man  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  her 
and  on  his  narrow  lips  there  hovered  an 
unfathomable  smile. 

Janina  felt  that  look  and  in  turn  glanced  at 
him.  Their  eyes  met  in  a  long  and  friendly 
gaze. 

She  felt  a  sudden  and  irresistible  impulse  to 
reveal  the  depths  of  her  soul  to  him. 

She  moved  closer  to  him  and  said  quietly: 
"I  was  not  thinking  about  death." 

"Then  you  were  seeking  calm?" 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  take  a  look  at  nature  and 
to  forget." 

"Forget  about  what?" 


426  The  Comedienne 

"About  life!"  Janina  whispered  hoarsely 
and  tears  of  violent  grief  filled  her  eyes. 

"You  are  a  child.  It  must  have  been  some 
disappointment  in  love,  some  thwarted  ambi- 
tion, or  perhaps  the  lack  of  a  dinner  that  put 
you  in  such  a  tragic  mood." 

4 'All  that  taken  together  is  not  enough  to 
make  one  feel  very,  very  unhappy,"  answered 
Janina. 

"All  that  taken  together  is  one  big  zero,  for 
according  to  my  way  of  thinking  there  is 
nothing  that  can  make  wholly  unhappy  an 
individual  who  knows  himself,"  he  said. 

"Who  are  you  .  .  .  that  is,  what  do  you 
do?"  he  asked,  after  pausing  a  while. 

"I  am  in  the  theater,"  answered  the  girl. 

"Aha!  the  world  of  comedy!  Simulation 
which  you  afterwards  take  for  reality. 
Chimeras!  All  that  warps  the  human  soul. 
The  greatest  actors  are  merely  phonographs 
wound  up  sometimes  by  sages,  sometimes  by 
geniuses,  but  most  often  by  fools.  And  they 
speak  to  even  greater  fools.  Actors,  artists, 
creators  are  merely  blind  instruments  of 
nature  which  uses  them  to  reveal  itself  and 
for  ends  known  to  itself  alone!  To  them  it 
seems  that  they  are  something  real,  but  that  is 


The  Comedienne  427 

a  sad  deception,  for  they  are  merely  instru- 
ments which  are  thrown  into  the  discard  when 
they  are  no  longer  needed  or  have  lost  their 
usefulness." 

"Who  are  you?"  Janina  asked,  almost 
unknowingly,  stirred  by  his  words. 

"An  old  man  as  you  see,  who  fishes  and 
likes  to  chat.  Oh  yes,  I  am  very  old.  I  come 
here  for  a  few  hours  every  day  in  the  summer- 
time, if  the  weather  is  fair,  and  catch  fish,  if 
they  let  themselves  be  caught.  What  good 
will  it  do  you  to  know  who  I  am?  My  name 
will  tell  you  nothing.  In  the  sum  total  of 
humanity  I  am  merely  a  pawn  which  is  given 
a  certain  number  upon  entrance  into  this 
world  and  retains  the  same  at  the  time  of  its 
exit.  I  am  a  cell  of  feeling  long  ago  registered 
and  classified  by  my  fellow -beings  as  a  'ne'er- 
do-well,'  "  he  said,  smiling. 

"I  had  no  intention  of  offending  you  by  my 
question." 

"I  never  get  angry  about  anything.  Only 
foolish  people  anger  themselves  or  rejoice.  A 
man  ought  merely  to  look  on,  observe,  and  go 
his  own  way,"  he  added,  drawing  a  gudgeon 
from  his  hook. 

Janina  was  a  bit  chilled  by  his  gravity  and 


428  The  Comedienne 

by  his  decisive  way  of  speaking  which 
admitted  of  no  discussion. 

"Are  you  from  the  Warsaw  Theater?"  he 
asked,  throwing  out  his  line  again. 

"No,  I  am  in  Cabinski's  company.  No 
doubt  you  know  him." 

"I  don't  know  him,  nor  have  I  heard  about 
him." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  never  heard 
anything  about  Cabinski,  nor  read  about  the 
Tivoli?"  asked  Janina  greatly  surprised  that 
there  could  be  anyone  in  Warsaw  who  did  not 
know  and  was  not  interested  in  the  theater. 

"I  do  not  go  to  the  theater  at  all  and  I  do 
not  read  the  papers,"  he  answered. 

"Impossible!" 

"One  can  see  right  away  that  you  must  not 
be  more  than  twenty  years  old,  for  you  cry  out 
in  amazement,  'Impossible!'  and  look  at  me  as 
though  I  were  a  lunatic  or  a  barbarian." 

"But  after  talking  with  you,  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  assume  even  for  a  moment 
that  ..." 

"That  I  am  not  interested  in  the  theater, 
yes,  that  I  do  not  read  the  papers,"  he  con- 
cluded for  her. 

"I  can't  even  understand  why." 


The  Comedienne  429 

"Well,  because  that  does  not  interest  me  at 
all,"  he  answered  simply. 

"Are  you  not  at  all  interested  in  what  is 
going  on  in  the  world,  in  how  people  are  living, 
what  they  are  doing,  what  they  are  thinking?  " 

"  No.  To  you  that  doubtless  appears  mon- 
strous; nevertheless  it  is  entirely  natural.  Do 
our  peasants  interest  themselves  in  the  theater 
or  in  world  affairs?  They  do  not.  Isn't  that 
true?" 

"Yes,  but  they  are  peasants  and  that  is 
entirely  different." 

"It  is  the  same  thing,  merely  with  this 
addition ;  that  for  them  your  famous  and  great 
men  do  not  exist  at  all  and  it  doesn't  make  the 
slightest  difference  to  them  whether  Newton  or 
Shakespeare  ever  lived  or  not.  And  they  are 
just  as  well  off  with  their  ignorance,  just  as 
well." 

Janina  became  silent,  for  what  he  had  said 
appeared  to  her  paradoxical  and  not  very 
true. 

"What  will  I  learn  from  your  newspapers 
and  your  theaters?  Merely  that  people  love, 
hate,  and  fight  one  another  the  same  as  ever; 
that  evil  and  brute  force  continue  to  reign  as 
they  always  have  done;  that  the  world  and  life 


43°  The  Comedienne 

are  merely  a  big  mill  in  which  brains  and  con- 
sciences are  ground  to  dust.  It  is  more  com- 
fortable to  know  nothing  rather  than  that,"  he 
continued. 

"But  is  it  right  for  anyone  to  seclude  him- 
self so  egoistically  from  all  that  is  going  on  in 
the  world?"  asked  Janina. 

"Precisely  in  that  lies  wisdom.  To  desire 
nothing  for  ourselves,  care  for  nothing,  and  be 
indifferent — that  is  what  we  ought  to  aim  at." 

"  Is  it  possible  to  attain  such  a  state  of  com- 
plete apathy?" 

"It  is  attained  through  the  experience  of 
life  and  through  thinking.  Remember  that 
the  smallest  pleasure,  a  mere  momentary  sat- 
isfaction, always  costs  us  more  dearly  than  it  is 
really  worth.  The  average  man  will  not,  for 
instance,  pay  a  thousand  rubles  for  a  pear,  for 
he  knows  that  would  be  an  insane  absurdity, 
and  moreover,  he  knows  the  relative  value  of 
a  thousand  rubles  and  of  a  pear.  But  out  of 
the  capital  of  his  life  he  is  ready  to  squander 
thousands  for  mere  trifles — for  a  light  love 
affair  that  lasts  only  as  long  as  it  takes  a  two 
cent  pear  to  ripen,  for  he  has  never  considered 
the  almost  priceless  value  of  his  own  vital 
energy  and  becomes  blind  to  all,  like  a  bull 


The  Comedienne  43 1 

when  the  toreador  flashes  a  red  rag  before  his 
eyes,  and  pays  for  that  blindness  with  a  part  of 
his  life.  The  majority  of  human  beings  die, 
not  from  natural  necessity,  like  a  lamp  when 
its  oil  has  burned  out,  but  from  bankruptcy, 
from  squandering  their  powers  and  strength 
on  foolish  things  that  are  worth  a  thousand 
times  less  than  one  day  of  life." 

"I  would  not  want  to  live  such  a  cold  and 
calculated  life  without  frenzies,  dreams,  and 
love." 

"The  world  would  not  come  to  an  end,  if 
people  did  not  love." 

11  It  would  be  better  to  kill  one's  self  than  to 
live  and  dry  up  like  a  tree." 

"Suicide  is  the  vulgar  cry  of  the  animal  who 
suffers;  it  is  the  rebellion  of  the  atom  against 
the  laws  of  the  universe.  One  must  allow  the 
candle  of  one's  life  to  burn  out  slowly  and 
calmly  to  the  very  end — in  that  lies 
happiness." 

"So  that  is  happiness?"  asked  Janina,  feel- 
ing a  sudden  chill  penetrating  her  soul. 

"Yes.  Peace  is  happiness.  To  negate 
everything,  to  kill  one's  desires  and  passions, 
to  tear  out  of  oneself  illusions  and  whims — that 
is  the  way  to  attain  it.  It  means  to  hold  fast 


432  The  Comedienne 

your  soul  in  the  grip  of  self-knowledge  and 
prevent  it  from  dissipating  itself  in  foolish 
things." 

"Who  would  want  to  live  under  such  a 
yoke?  What  soul  could  endure  it?  " 

"The  soul  is  knowledge." 

"So  you  advocate  nothing  but  stony  in- 
difference and  peace!  Never  to  know  of  feel 
anything  else  but  this !  No,  I  prefer  the  ordi- 
nary trend  of  life." 

"There  is  still  another  way:  the  best  remedy 
for  our  mental  sufferings  is  to  expand  our 
hearts,  to  become  one  with  nature." 

"Let  us  drop  that.  I  don't  like  to  speak 
about  it,  for  it  stirs  me  too  strongly." 

They  both  remained  silent  for  a  long  while. 
The  old  man  gazed  into  the  water  and 
mumbled  something  to  himself,  while  Janina 
was  rapt  in  thought. 

"All  is  foolishness,"  he  began  anew. 
"Behold  and  wonder  at  the  water,  if  nothing 
more;  it  will  suffice  you  for  a  long  time. 
Observe  the  birds,  the  stars,  and  the  elements; 
trace  the  growth  of  the  trees,  listen  to  the 
wind,  drink  in  perfumes  and  hues  and  every- 
where you  will  find  unparalleled,  everlasting 
miracles.  It  will  replace  for  you  entirely  life 


The  Comedienne  433 

among  people.  Only  do  not  gaze  at  nature 
with  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar,  for  then  the  most 
beautiful  bird  songs  will  sound  to  you  like 
a  mere  screeching;  the  most  majestic  forest 
will  seem  nothing  but  so  much  kindling  wood; 
in  animals  you  will  see  nothing  but  meat  for 
food;  the  meadows  will  appear  to  you  as  so 
much  hay;  for  then,  instead  of  feeling,  you 
will  be  calculating." 

"All  human  beings  are  like  that." 

"There  are  a  few  who  can  read  from  the 
book  of  nature  and  find  in  it  sustenance  for 
their  life." 

Again  they  became  silent. 

The  sun  began  to  sink  behind  the  hills  on  the 
opposite  shore  and  to  shine  ever  more  coldly 
as  though  it  were  burnt  out,  dyeing  the  water 
blood  red  with  its  parting  rays.  The  thickets 
seemed  to  shrink,  for  they  appeared  to  grow 
lower  and  wider  at  their  bases.  The  yellow- 
ish sands  on  the  river  bank  became  shrouded 
by  the  gray  dusk.  The  distant  horizon 
seemed  to  sink  away  in  the  mists  which  rose 
up  as  though  they  were  the  smoke  of  the  burnt- 
out,  smoldering  sun.  An  even  deeper  silence 
descended  and  enveloped  the  earth  in  sleep,  as 
though  it  were  weary  of  the  labors  of  the  day. 


28 


434  The  Comedienne 

Janina  pondered  over  the  words  of  the  old 
man  and  a  quiet,  gloomy  sadness  filled  her 
heart  and  cast  a  vague  and  shadowy  fear  over 
her  mind.  A  feeling  of  passive  submission 
and  torpor  overcame  her. 

She  arose  to  go,  for  it  was  already  growing 
dark. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  asked  the  old  man. 

[<  Yes,  it  is  already  time  and  it  is  quite  a  way 
to  Warsaw." 

"Then  we  shall  go  together." 

He  put  away  his  fishing  tackle  in  his  cane, 
deposited  the  fish  in  a  small  can  and  began  to 
walk  along  with  Janina  at  a  swift  enough  pace. 

"I  do  not  know  your  name,"  he  began  to 
say  slowly,  "and  I'm  not  at  all  interested  in 
that,  but  I  see  that  you  must  not  be  very 
happy  in  life.  I  am  a  crazy  old  man,  as  my 
neighbors  call  me,  and  an  old  mason,  as  the 
town  gossips  like  to  add;  I'm  alone  and, 
reconciled  to  my  fate,  I  am  awaiting  the  end. 
Some  time  ago  I  knew  a  little  of  what  it  means 
to  suffer  and  love,  but  that  is  past  long  ago, 
long  ago,"  he  whispered,  gazing  as  it  were,  into 
a  distant  past,  with  a  faint  smile  of  remem- 
brance on  his  face.  "The  greatest  boon  that 
man  possesses  is  his  ability  to  forget,  other- 


The  Comedienne  435 

wise  he  could  not  live  at  all.  But  all  this  does 
not  interest  you  in  the  least,  does  it?  I  some- 
times chatter  nonsense,  catch  myself  talking  to 
myself,  and  often  forget  things,  for  I'm  just  an 
old  man,  you  see.  You  have  an  honest-look- 
ing face,  so  I  will  give  you  this  bit  of  advice; 
whenever  you  suffer,  when  everything  dis- 
appoints you  and  life  becomes  unbearable — 
flee  from  the  city,  go  into  the  open  country, 
breathe  in  the  fresh  air,  bathe  in  the  sunlight, 
gaze  at  the  sky,  think  about  eternity  and  pray 
.  .  .  and  you  will  forget  all  your  troubles. 
You  will  feel  better  and  stronger.  The  misery 
of  the  people  of  to-day  arises  from  their 
estrangement  from  nature  and  from  God,  from 
loneliness  of  the  soul.  And  I  will  tell  you  one 
more  thing;  forgive  everything  and  be  merci- 
ful to  all.  People  are  bad  only  through  their 
ignorance,  therefore  you  be  good.  The  great- 
est wisdom  is  in  the  greatest  kindness.  I  am 
here  every  day  while  it  is  warm.  Perhaps 
we  shall  meet  again  sometime.  Good-bye,  and 
may  you  be  happy."  He  nodded  his  head 
kindly  in  farewell. 

She  gazed  a  long  time  after  him  until  he 
vanished  from  her  sight  near  the  church  of 
St.  Mary.  Janina  rubbed  her  eyes,  for  it 


436  The  Comedienne 

seemed  to  her  that  this  meeting  had  been 
merely  a  hallucination. 

"No,  that  cannot  be,"  she  whispered  to  her- 
self, for  she  still  felt  upon  her  face  the  pure 
gaze  of  his  peaceful  old  eyes  and  heard  his 
voice  saying:  "Be  good!  Pray!  Forgive!" 
She  repeated  the  words  to  herself  as  she  walked 
along  the  street. 

"Forgive!"  and  she  saw  her  father  and 
afterwards  the  theater,  Cabinski,  Majkowska, 
Kotlicki,  Mme.  Anna,  and  Sowinska  and 
remembered  those  days  of  suffering,  abuse, 
and  insult. 

"Be  good!"  and  she  saw  again  Mirowska, 
who  bore  the  most  painful  wrongs  with  a  smile, 
who  never  did  anyone  any  harm,  and  yet  was 
the  laughing  stock  of  the  entire  company. 
Then,  there  was  Wolska,  who  at  the  expense 
of  her  own  life  saved  her  child  from  death  and 
who  was  cheated  and  forced  into  poverty. 
There  was  Cabinska's  nurse  sacrificing  herself 
for  a  stranger's  children.  There  was,  too, 
the  old  stage-director,  slighted  by  everybody; 
there  were  the  peasants  in  the  country,  treated 
like  animals,  and  the  exploited  workmen  in 
the  cities.  There  were  all  the  swindles, 
cheatings,  and  crimes  which  were  going 


The  Comedienne  437 

on  continually.  Janina  felt  that  something 
within  her  was  trembling,  breaking,  and 
crying  out  in  protest;  that  the  suffering  of 
all  humanity  was  pouring  into  her  soul ;  that  all 
the  injustice,  all  the  wrongs,  all  the  suffering 
and  tears  stood  before  her,  and  a  grave  voice 
from  above  was  saying:  "Be  good,  forgive, 
pray,"  while  round  about  her  a  jeering  laugh- 
ter arose,  as  though  in  response  to  it. 

She  arrived  at  her  home  and  for  a  long  time 
could  not  calm  herself.  She  pressed  her  hands 
to  her  head  as  though  trying  to  still  those 
tumultuous  thoughts  that  were  whirling 
through  her  brain  in  such  confusion  that  she 
could  not  distinguish  truth  from  falsehood. 
For  in  a  moment  of  clairvoyant  vision  she  had 
seen  that  both  the  good  and  the  bad  suffered 
equally,  that  all  were  struggling,  all  were  cla- 
moring for  salvation  and  protesting  against  life. 

"I  shall  go  mad!  I  shall  go  mad!"  Janina 
whispered  to  herself. 

On  the  next  morning  Wladek  came  to  see 
her.  He  seemed  to  be  so  good  and  kissed  her 
hand  so  tenderly  that  she  could  not  help  notic- 
ing his  devotion.  He  complained  about 
Cabinski  and  aired  at  length  his  grievances 
against  his  mother. 


438  The  Comedienne 

Janina  regarded  him  with  a  cold  look,  for 
she  understood  almost  at  once  that  he  wished 
to  borrow  money  from  her. 

"Go  and  buy  me  some  powder,  for  I  must 
go  to  the  theater  to-day,"  she  said  to  him. 

Wladek  rose  eagerly  to  fulfill  her  behest. 

"Close  the  door  after  you,  for  I  am  going  to 
dress." 

He  closed  the  door  with  the  latch  to  which 
he  had  his  own  key,  and  departed. 

On  the  street,  almost  at  the  very  door 
Wladek  spied  the  counselor.  A  sudden  idea 
flashed  through  his  mind,  for  he  smiled  and 
cordially  approached  the  old  man. 

"Good  morning,  esteemed  counselor." 

"Good  morning,  how  are  you  feeling,  eh?" 

"Thank  you,  I  am  entirely  well,  only  Miss 
Orlowska  is  ill.  The  directress  has  just  asked 
me  to  see  how  she  was  getting  along." 

1 '  What  ?  Miss  Janina  is  ill  ?  They  told  me 
so  behind  the  scenes,  but  I  did  not  believe  it, 
for  I  thought  ..." 

"Yes,  she  is  sick.  I  am  just  now  going  for 
some  medicine." 

"Is  she  dangerously  ill?" 

"Oh  no,  but  would  you  like  to  convince 
yourself  personally?" 


The  Comedienne  439 

The  counselor  started  violently,  but  then, 
adjusting  his  glasses,  he  said:  "Indeed,  I 
would  like  to.  I  wished  to  do  so  many  times 
before,  but  she  is  so  inaccessible." 

"  I  will  smooth  the  way  for  you." 

"You  are  joking.  How  can  that  be  done? 
Although,  considering  my  friendly  attitude 
toward  her  ..." 

"You  can  see  her.  Here  is  the  latchkey  to 
her  room.  She  will  receive  you;  she  even  told 
me  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  have  her 
friends  visit  her,  for  she  spends  entire  days  all 
alone." 

"But  if  ..." 

"Go.  If  she  received  me,  she  will  receive 
you  all  the  more  readily.  I  will  be  back  in 
about  an  hour  and  then  we  can  have  a  chat." 
So  saying,  Wladek  left  hurriedly. 

The  counselor  wiped  his  glasses,  fidgeted 
about  nervously,  and  had  not  yet  made  up  his 
mind  whether  to  enter  or  not,  when  Wladek 
turned  back  and  called : 

' '  My  dear  counselor !  Lend  me  four  rubles, 
will  you?  I  would  first  have  to  look  for 
Cabinski  to  get  the  money  and  the  medicine 
is  needed  here  right  away.  I  have  taken  an 
unpleasant  task  upon  myself,  but  what  is  one 


44°  The  Comedienne 

going  to  do  when  companionship  demands  it? 
I  will  return  the  money  to  you  this  evening, 
only  please  don't  say  anything  about  this. 
And  pardon  my  boldness." 

The  counselor  willingly  reached  for  his 
pocket  book  and,  handing  Wladek  ten  rubles 
said:  "  I  am  glad  I  can  help  you.  If  any  more 
is  needed,  tell  Miss  Janina  to  mention  only  a 
word  to  me  and  she  can  have  it." 

Wladek  went  off  with  the  money,  whistling 
merrily. 

The  counselor  entered  the  house,  quietly 
opened  the  door  to  Janina's  apartment,  took 
off  his  hat  and  coat  and  walked  into  the  room. 

Janina  was  combing  her  hair  and  paid  no 
attention  to  the  opening  of  the  door,  for  she 
thought  that  Wladek  had  returned. 

The  counselor  coughed  a  few  times  and 
approached  her  with  extended  hand. 

Janina  sprang  up  hastily  and  threw  a  scarf 
over  her  naked  shoulders. 

''Mr.  Wladyslaw  has  just  told  me  that  you 
were  ill,  so  I  thought  it  would  be  a  sin  not  to 
come  to  see  you,"  said  the  counselor,  speak- 
ing rapidly,  adjusting  his  glasses  and  smiling 
a  colorless,  banal  smile. 

Janina  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  for  a 


The  Comedienne  441 

moment,  but  when  she  felt  the  touch  of  his 
cold,  clammy  hand  in  her  own,  she  grew  red 
with  anger,  sprang  toward  the  door  so  vio- 
lently that  the  scarf  fell  to  the  floor,  revealing 
the  stately  lines  of  her  shoulders,  and  opening 
the  door  with  an  energetic  gesture,  cried: 
"Leave  the  room!" 

"But  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I 
hadn't  even  the  slightest  intention  of  offending 
you.  As  a  well-wishing  friend  I  came  here 
merely  to  offer  you  my  sympathy.  Mr. 
Wladyslaw  .  .  ."  " 

"Is  a  scoundrel!" 

"To  that  I'll  agree,  but  you  needn't  get 
angry  at  me  and  express  your  indignation  in 
such  a  drastic  manner ;  that  is  a  trifle  too  ..." 

"Please  leave  the  room  immediately!" 
cried  Janina,  trembling  with  anger. 

"A  comedienne!  A  comedienne,  upon  my 
word!"  whispered  the  counselor  to  himself, 
hastily  putting  on  his  overcoat,  for  he  was 
irritated  and  offended.  He  hurried  out, 
angrily  slamming  the  door  after  him. 

' '  Oh,  what  a  scoundrel !  What  a  scoundrel ! 
and  I  belong  to  such  a  man  ...  I!  They  are 
jackals,  not  human  beings,  jackals!  Wher- 
ever one  turns  there  is  mud  and  filth!" 


442  The  Comedienne 

And  so  great  grew  Janina's  indignation, 
that  she  cried  almost  aloud  through  her  tears : 
' '  Base  wretches !  wretches !  wretches ! ' ' 

Soon  afterwards,  Wladek  returned  bringing 
with  him  the  powder,  a  bottle  of  whisky  and 
a  package  of  sandwiches.  He  eyed  Janina 
curiously  and  looked  about  the  room. 

' '  The  counselor  was  here ! ' '  she  flung  at  him 
harshly. 

The  actor  laughed  cynically  and  exclaimed 
in  a  barroom  jargon,  "I  cornered  him.  Now 
we  can  have  a  little  feast." 

Janina  was  about  to  tell  him  how  base  he 
was,  but  suddenly  there  rang  in  her  ears  those 
words :  ' '  Be  good !  Forgive !  * ' 

She  restrained  herself  and  began  to  laugh, 
but  so  harshly  and  so  long  that  she  fell  upon 
the  bed  and,  tossing  about  on  it,  began  to 
repeat  amid  that  dreadful,  hysterical  laughter: 
"  Be  good!  Forgive !" 

After  a  week's  intermission  there  began 
again  for  Janina  her  former  hard  life  and  an 
even  harder  battle,  because  now  it  had  become 
a  struggle  for  mere  daily  bread. 

She  sang,  as  before,  in  the  chorus,  dressed 
as  a  chorus  girl,  peered  through  the  curtain  at 


The  Comedienne  443 

the  public,  whose  attendance  at  the  theater 
was  decreasing  every  day,  strayed  about  the 
stage  and  the  dressing-rooms  during  the  inter- 
missions, and  listened  to  the  whispered  con- 
versations, the  music,  and  the  quarrels.  But 
how  different  now  were  her  thoughts  and  her 
feelings,  how  different  now  and  unlike  her 
former  self  was  Janina ! 

She  no  longer  sought  in  the  eyes  of  the 
public  enthusiasm  and  love  of  art,  nor  did  she 
cast  challenging  glances  at  the  front  rows  of 
seats,  for  poverty  had  taught  her  how  to  esti- 
mate from  the  stage  the  size  of  the  audience 
and  from  it  to  draw  deductions  as  to  the  pro- 
portionate size  of  her  salary.  Poverty  taught 
her  to  take  covertly  from  the  storeroom  the 
bread  that  was  often  used  on  the  stage  and  to 
eat  it  on  the  way  home ;  frequently  this  was  her 
entire  daily  sustenance.  No  one  admired  her 
now,  or  escorted  her  home;  nor  did  she  con- 
tend with  anyone  about  art. 

Kotlicki  had  completely  vanished,  the  coun- 
selor was  angry  at  Janina  and  kept  away  from 
the  theater,  while  Wladek  spoke  with  her  only 
at  times  and  visited  her  ever  more  rarely, 
offering  as  his  excuse  his  mother's  growing 
weakness  and  the  need  of  being  with  her. 


444  The  Comedienne 

Janina  knew  that  he  was  lying,  but  she  did  not 
contradict  him,  for  he  was  entirely  indifferent 
to  her.  She  felt  a  deep  contempt  for  him,  but 
could  not  break  with  him  entirely  because 
there  still  lingered  deep  down  in  her  conscious- 
ness a  memory  of  the  happy  hours  they  had 
spent  together.  She  treated  him  coldly  and 
did  not  let  him  kiss  her,  but  she  could  not  tell 
him  outright  that  he  was  a  scoundrel,  for  he 
was,  in  a  way,  the  last  link  uniting  her  strange 
soul  with  the  world. 

Janina  had  grown  frightfully  thin.  Her 
complexion  became  pale  and  unhealthy, 
and  from  her  enlarged  glassy  eyes  there 
looked  forth  a  dreadful  and  constant 
hunger!  She  walked  about  the  theater  like  a 
shadow,  apparently  quiet  and  calm,  but  with 
that  feeling  of  unceasing  hunger  mercilessly 
tearing  her  within  and  with  despair  in  her 
face. 

There  were  whole  days  when  she  had  not  a 
bite  of  food,  when  she  felt  a  painful  emptiness 
in  her  head  and  heard  only  one  thing  echoing 
through  her  brain:  "If  I  could  only  get  some- 
thing to  eat!  Something  to  eat!"  Aside 
from  that  one  desire,  everything  vanished  from 
her  mind  and  had  no  importance. 


The  Comedienne  445 

A  similar  poverty  existed  throughout  the 
whole  company.  The  women  shifted  as  best 
they  could,  but  the  men,  particularly  the  more 
honest  ones,  sold  everything  they  possessed, 
even  their  wigs,  to  save  themselves. 

With  what  terror  they  awaited  each  eve- 
ning !  ' '  Are  we  going  to  play  to-night  ?  * '  This 
whisper  could  be  heard  all  over  the  theater: 
in  the  dressing-rooms,  behind  the  scenes,  in 
the  restaurant-garden  where  the  autumn  wind 
frolicked,  and  on  the  deserted  veranda,  where 
the  waiters,  vainly  waiting  for  guests,  repeated 
it.  It  was  also  repeated  by  Gold,  who  sat 
huddled  in  his  box  office,  shivering  with  cold. 

An  oppressive  silence  reigned  in  the 
dressing-rooms.  The  funniest  jokes  of  Glas 
could  not  chase  the  clouds  of  worry  from  the 
brows  of  the  actors.  They  became  careless  in 
their  make-up  and  none  of  them  learned  their 
roles,  for  everybody  was  waiting  in  dread 
suspense  for  the  performance  and  every  now 
and  then  going  to  the  box  office  and  asking  in 
a  whisper:  "Are  we  going  to  play  to-night?" 

Cabinski  presented  a  new  play  every  day, 
but  he  could  not  draw  the  public.  He  gave 
The  Trip  Around  Warsaw  and  The  Robbers, 
and  still  the  house  was  empty.  They  played 


446  The  Comedienne 

such  curtain-raisers  as  Don  C&sar  de  Bazan, 
The  Statue  of  the  Commander,  and  The  Fortune 
Teller  of  La  Voisin,  but  the  theater  remained 
as  deserted  as  ever. 

" For  goodness'  sake,  what  do  you  want?" 
the  director  cried  to  the  public  from  behind  the 
curtain. 

"Do  you  think  they  themselves  know  what 
they  want?  If  there  were  three  hundred 
people  present,  then  another  three  hundred 
would  appear,  but  when  there  are  only  fifty 
with  the  addition  of  cold  and  rain,  then  only 
twenty  remain,"  the  editor  explained  to 
Cabinski,  for  of  all  those  numerous  acquaint-  . 
ances  who  used  to  come  behind  the  scenes 
he  alone  remained,  the  rest  having  dispersed 
with  the  first  rains. 

"The  public  is  a  herd  that  does  not  know 
where  it  is  going  to  graze  on  the  following 
day,"  said  Mr.  Peter,  with  animosity. 

Oh  yes,  they  hated  that  public,  and  yet 
prayed  to  it.  They  cursed  it,  called  it  "a 
herd"  and  "cattle,"  threatened  it  with  their 
fists  and  spat  upon  it,  but  only  let  that  public 
appear  in  larger  numbers,  and  they  fell  upon 
their  faces  before  it  and  felt  a  deep  gratitude 
toward  that  capricious  lady,  who  had  a  differ- 


The  Comedienne  447 

ent  humor  each  day  and  each  day  bestowed 
her  favors  upon  someone  else. 

"The  public  is  a  harlot!  a  harlot!"  whis- 
pered Topolski  threateningly.  "To-day  she 
is  with  a  monarch,  to-morrow  with  a  clown!" 

"You  have  told  the  truth,  but  it  will  not 
give  you  even  a  ruble,"  answered  Wawrzecki, 
whose  humor  still  survived,  but  had  already 
become  sharp  and  bitter,  for  Mimi  had  left 
the  company  and  gone  to  join  another  one  at 
Posen. 

Several  members  of  the  company  had 
already  left,  although  there  still  remained  a 
whole  week  till  the  end  of  the  season.  Espe- 
cially the  choruses  had  almost  entirely  dis- 
persed, for  they  suffered  the  most  from 
poverty. 

The  rains  continued  to  fall  in  the  morning, 
the  afternoon,  and  the  evening.  The  atmo- 
sphere at  the  theater  became  unbearable. 
There  were  draughts  in  the  dressing-rooms, 
and  mud  covered  the  floors,  for  the  roof  leaked 
everywhere.  The  cold  was  intense. 

To  Janina  it  seemed  that  this  theater  was 
slowly  falling  apart  and  burying  everyone 
among  its  ruins,  while  that  other  one  on 
Theatrical  Place  stood  strong  and  invincible. 


448  The  Comedienne 

Its  ponderous  walls  had  grown  black  from  the 
rains  and  it  appeared  even  sterner  and  might- 
ier than  before  and  filled  Janina  with  a  pious, 
unexplainable  awe  whenever  she  gazed  at  it. 
It  sometimes  seemed  to  her  that  this  vast 
edifice  rested  its  columns  on  piles  of  corpses 
and  that  it  drank  the  blood,  the  lives,  and  the 
brains  of  the  actors  in  the  smaller  theaters  and 
throve  and  grew  mighty  on  them. 

4<I  shall  go  mad!  I  shall  go  mad!"  often 
whispered  Janina,  pressing  her  burning  head 
with  her  hands,  for  dreams  and  hallucinations 
tormented  her  even  more  than  hunger. 

There  was  still  another  thing  which  made 
her  deathly  silent,  so  that  she  would  sit  for 
whole  hours  listening  within  herself,  and 
thinking  of  those  strange,  indefinable  impres- 
sions and  feelings  which  prevaded  her  ever 
more  frequently.  Janina  felt  that  something 
dreadful  was  happening  within  her,  that  those 
sudden  fits  of  trembling  and  weeping  which 
would  seize  her  without  any  explainable 
cause,  those  violently  changing  moods  to 
which  she  gave  way  and  those  strange  suffer- 
ings were  somehow  unnatural  and  resulted 
from  something  about  which  she  feared  to 
think.  She  had  no  mother,  nor  anyone  in 


The  Comedienne  449 

f 

whom  she  could  confide  and  who  would  en- 
lighten her,  but  there  came  a  moment  when 
with  womanly  instinct  she  knew  that  she  was 
about  to  become  a  mother. 

Janina  wept  for  a  long  time  after  that 
discovery,  but  her  tears  were  not  tears  of 
despair,  but  only  of  tender  pity,  sensitiveness 
and  shame  at  the  same  time.  She  felt  then 
that  death  had  crouched  behind  her  and  was 
standing  so  close  that  it  sent  a  shudder  of 
frenzy  through  her  entire  being  and  cast  her 
into  an  apathetic  indifference.  She  ceased  to 
think  and  surrendered  herself  passively,  with 
the  fatalism  of  people  who  have  suffered  long 
or  who  have  been  crushed  by  some  overwhelm- 
ing misfortune,  to  the  wave  that  bore  her  on 
and  did  not  even  ask  whither  it  was  taking  her. 

One  day,  unable  to  endure  any  longer  the 
sharp  pangs  of  hunger,  Janina  began  to  look 
around  her  room  for  something  which  she 
might  sell.  She  began  feverishly  to  rummage 
in  her  trunks.  She  had  only  a  few  light 
theatrical  costumes. 

Sowinska  was  again  reminding  her  almost 
every  day  about  her  overdue  rent  and  that 
daily  nagging  was  an  unbearable  torment. 
Janina  could  not  ask  her  to  sell  those  cos- 


45°  The  Comedienne 

tumes,  for  she  knew  that  Sowinska  would 
unscrupulously  keep  the  money,  so  she  decided 
to  sell  them  herself. 

She  wrapped  one  of  the  costumes  in  a  piece 
of  paper  and  went  to  the  door  to  wait  for  a 
buyer  of  old  clothes,  but  the  porter  was  walk- 
ing about  the  yard,  servant  girls  were  going  to 
and  fro,  and  in  the  windows  of  the  houses  she 
saw  the  faces  of  women  who  had  often  cast 
scornful  glances  at  her.  No,  she  could  not 
sell  here,  for  in  a  moment  the  whole  house 
would  know  about  her  poverty.  She  went 
to  one  of  the  adjoining  houses  and  waited  a 
short  while. 

u Any  old  things  to  buy!  Any  old  things  to 
buy!"  came  the  hoarse  voice  of  an  old  Jew. 

Janina  called  him.  The  Jew  turned  his 
head  and  came  to  her.  He  was  as  dirty  as  he 
was  old.  She  went  with  him  to  the  stoop  of 
some  house. 

"Do  you  want  to  sell  anything?"  asked  the 
Jew,  laying  his  bag  and  stick  on  the  stairs  and 
bending  his  thin  face  and  red  eyes  over  the 
package. 

"Yes,"  answered  Janina,  unwrapping  the 
paper. 

The  Jew  took  the  costume  in  his  dirty 


The  Comedienne  45 1 

hands,  spread  it  out  in  the  sunlight,  looked 
over  it  a  few  times,  smiled  imperceptibly,  put 
it  back  in  the  paper,  wrapped  it  up,  picked  up 
his  bag  and  stick  and  said,  "Such  fineries  are 
not  for  me. ' '  He  began  to  descend  the  stairway, 
derisively  smacking  his  lips. 

"I  will  sell  it  cheap,"  Janina  called  after 
him,  thinking  with  fear  that  perhaps  she  might 
get  at  least  a  ruble  or  a  half -ruble  for  it. 

"If  you  have  some  old  shoes  or  pillow-slips, 
I  will  buy  them,  but  such  a  thing  is  of  no  use 
to  me.  Who  will  buy  it?  Rubbish ! " 

"I  will  sell  it  cheap,"  she  whispered. 

"Well,  how  much  do  you  want  for  it?" 

"A  ruble." 

"May  I  fall  down  dead,  if  that  is  worth 
more  than  twenty  kopecks.  What  is  it  worth, 
who  will  buy  it?"  and  he  came  back,  un- 
wrapped the  costume,  and  again  examined  it 
indifferently. 

"The  ribbons  alone  cost  me  a  few  rubles," 
said  Janina,  and  she  became  silent,  deciding 
that  she  would  take  the  twenty  kopecks. 

"Ribbons!  What's  that  ...  all  pieces!" 
chattered  the  Jew,  glancing  over  the  costume 
hastily.  ' '  Well,  I  will  give  you  thirty  kopecks. 
Do  you  want  it?  As  I'm  an  honest  man,  I 


452  The  Comedienne 

can't  give  you  more  ...  I  have  a  good  heart, 
but  I  can't.  Well,  do  you  want  it?" 

This  barter  filled  Janina  with  such  disgust, 
shame,  and  grief,  that  she  felt  like  throwing 
down  everything  and  running  away. 

The  Jew  counted  out  the  money  to  her,  took 
the  costume  and  went  away.  From  the  window 
of  her  room  Janina  saw  how  in  the  full  light  of 
the  yard  he  examined  the  dress  once  more. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  this?"  she  whispered 
helplessly,  pressing  in  her  hand  the  dirty  and 
sticky  kopecks. 

Janina  owed  money  to  Mme.  Anna  for  the 
rent  of  her  room,  to  the  tender  of  the  theater- 
buffet,  and  to  a  few  of  her  companions  of  the 
chorus,  but  she  no  longer  thought  of  this,  only 
took  the  thirty  kopecks  and  went  out  to  the 
store  to  buy  herself  something  to  eat. 

She  returned  home,  and  having  eaten,  she 
wished  to  take  a  little  nap,  but  Sowinska 
entered  and  told  her  that  someone  was  waiting 
for  her  for  the  last  half-hour  and  immediately 
there  entered  Niedzielska's  servant  girl  with 
eyes  all  red  from  crying. 

"Please  Miss,  come  along  with  me,  for  my 
mistress  is  very  sick  and  wants  to  see  you  with- 
out fail,"  she  said. 


The  Comedienne  453 

"Is  Madame  Niedzielska  so  seriously  ill?" 
cried  Janina,  springing  up  from  the  bed  and 
hurriedly  putting  on  her  hat. 

"The  priest  has  already  been  there  this 
afternoon  with  the  sacrament  and  she  has  only 
a  few  hours  to  live,"  whispered  the  faithful  old 
servant  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "She  can 
scarcely  draw  her  breath  and  all  I  understood 
her  to  say  was  that  I  should  run  to  you  and 
tell  you  that  she  wants  to  see  you  right  away. 
And  where  is  Mr.  Wladyslaw?" 

' '  How  can  I  know?  He  ought  to  be  with  his 
mother,"  answered  Janina. 

"He  ought  to,  but  he  is  a  worthless  son," 
whispered  the  servant  in  hollow  tones. 
"Already  for  a  week  he  has  not  been  at  home, 
for  he  had  an  awful  quarrel  with  his  mother. 
My  God!  My  God!  how  he  swore  at  her  and 
abused  her  and  even  wanted  to  strike  her.  O 
merciful  Lord,  that  is  the  way  he  repaid  her 
for  loving  him  so  dearly  that  she  even  denied 
herself  food  to  supply  him  with  money.  She 
was  such  a  miser  that  she  did  not  want  to 
spend  money  for  a  doctor  or  any  medicines 
and  he  ...  oh!  oh,  God  will  punish  him 
severely  for  his  mother's  tears!  I  know  that 
you  are  not  to  blame  for  it,  miss  ...  I  can 


454  The  Comedienne 

guess  that  .  .  .  but  ..."  she  whispered 
quietly,  hobbling  alongside  of  Janina  and 
every  now  and  then  wiping  her  eyes,  all  red 
from  crying  and  loss  of  sleep. 

Janina  hardly  heard  a  word  of  what  she 
was  saying  for  the  noise  and  the  din  in  the 
street  and  the  splashing  of  water  flowing  from 
the  drainpipes  to  the  sidewalk  drowned  out 
everything  else.  She  went  along  only  because 
the  dying  woman  had  summoned  her. 

The  first  room  of  Niedzielska's  home  was 
almost  filled  with  people  and  Janina  greeted 
them  as  she  passed  through  it,  but  no  one 
answered  her  and  all  eyes  followed  her  with  a 
peculiar  curiosity. 

In  the  room  where  Niedzielska  lay,  there 
were  also  a  few  persons  seated  about  her  bed. 
Janina  went  straight  to  the  sick  woman.  She 
was  lying  flat  on  her  back,  but  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  Janina  as  soon  as  she  had  crossed  the 
threshold. 

On  Janina's  entrance  the  persons  in  the  room 
stopped  talking  so  abruptly  that  the  sudden 
silence  sent  a  strange  thrill  through  her.  She 
met  Niedzielska's  gaze  and  could  not  tear  her 
eyes  away  from  it.  She  sat  down  alongside  of 
the  bed,  greeting  her  in  a  subdued  voice. 


The  Comedienne  455 

The  old  woman  grasped  her  hand  tightly 
and  in  a  quiet  voice  with  a  very  strong  accent 
asked:  "Where  is  Wladek?" 

Her  brows  knit  themselves  in  an  expression 
of  severity  and  something  like  hatred  gleamed 
in  the  yellowish  whites  of  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  know.  How  am  I  to  know?" 
answered  Janina  almost  frightened  by  her 
question. 

"You  don't  know,  you  thief!  You  have 
stolen  my  son  and  yet,  you  dare  tell  me  that 
you  don't  know!"  gasped  Niedzielska,  striv- 
ing to  raise  her  voice  a  little,  but  it  sounded 
hollow  and  wild.  Her  eyes  opened  ever  wider 
and  gleamed  with  hatred  and  menace,  her  pale 
lips  quivered  nervously,  and  her  thin,  yellow 
face  twitched  continually.  She  raised  herself 
a  bit  on  her  bed  and  in  a  hoarse  voice,  as 
though  rallying  her  remaining  strength  cried: 
1  'You  streetwalker!  You  thief!  You  .  .  ." 
and  she  fell  back  exhausted,  with  a  hollow 
groan. 

Janina  sprang  up,  as  though  an  electric 
shock  had  passed  through  her,  but  the  old 
woman  gripped  her  wrist  so  tightly  that  she 
fell  back  again  on  her  chair,  unable  to  free 
her  hand.  She  glanced  about  desperately  at 


456  The  Comedienne 

everybody,  in  the  room,  but  their  faces  were 
stern.  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  the  yellowish  wrinkled 
faces  of  those  women  who  stood  facing  her  like 
specters  glaring  at  her  with  their  skeleton-like 
faces  in  the  shadowy  twilight  of  the  room. 

"  So  that  is  she !    So  young  and  already  .  .  ." 

"A  base  serpent." 

11 1  would  kill  her  like  a  dog,  if  she  tried  to  do 
the  same  with  my  son." 

"I  would  have  her  locked  up  and  sent  to  the 
workhouse." 

"In  my  days  such  women  as  that  were  put 
into  the  pillory  as  a  punishment  .  I 
remember  well." 

"Be  quiet!  quiet!"  whispered  an  old  man 
trying  to  pacify  the  women. 

"And  for  her  he  ran  away  to  the  comedians, 
for  her  he  squandered  so  much  money,  for  such 
a  low-down  thing  as  she,  he  beat  his  mother! 
May  you  perish,  you  base  serpent!" 

Such  were  the  voices  full  of  hatred  and  scorn 
that  hissed  all  about  Janina  and  the  poisonous 
malignity  that  dripped  from  their  words  and 
glances  flooded  her  heart  with  an  ocean  of  pain 
and  shame.  She  wanted  to  cry  out:  "Mercy, 
people!  I  am  innocent,"  but  her  head  bent 


The  Comedienne  457 

ever  lower  on  her  breast  and  she  had  an  ever 
dimmer  consciousness  of  where  she  was  and 
what  was  happening  to  her.  Janina's  soul 
had  already  been-  weakened  too  much  by 
misery  to  resist  this  blow.  An  immense  wave 
of  fear  began  to  shake  her,  for  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  hand  of  the  old  woman  which  held  her 
so  tightly  and  those  dreadful  eyes  bulging 
from  their  sockets  were  drawing  her  down  into 
a  dark  abyss  and  that  this  was  death  and  the 
end  of  everything. 

Later,  Janina  no  longer  heard  anything 
that  was  being  said  and  saw  no  one  but  the 
dying  woman.  At  moments,  she  still  felt  a 
desire  to  spring  up  and  run  away  from  there 
but  it  was  a  mere  flicker  of  will  that  passed 
through  her  nerves  without  reaching  her 
consciousness. 

So  many  previous  sufferings,  and  now  this 
blow  at  her  very  heart,  benumbed  her  brain 
with  a  quiet  madness.  She  grew  frightfully 
pale  and  sat  as  though  dead,  gazing  at  the  face 
of  the  dying  woman.  Those  same  fragments 
of  thoughts  and  visions  now  swarmed  through 
her  brain  that  had  done  so  once  before:  that 
same  vast  mass  of  greenish  waters  seemed  to 
submerge  her  consciousness.  She  was  not 


458  The  Comedienne 

even  aware  that  they  had  torn  her  away  from 
Niedzielska  and  shoved  her  into  a  corner 
where  she  stood  immovable  and  bereft  of  her 
senses. 

Niedzielska  was  dying.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  had  only  been  waiting  for  Janina 
before  giving  herself  up  to  death,  for  anger  and 
hatred  kept  her  alive  a  few  hours  longer. 
Now,  there  followed  a  general  dissolution. 
She  lay  there  rigid  and  straight,  with  her 
hands  upon  the  coverlet,  which  they  tugged  at 
automatically,  and  with  her  sad  eyes  gazing 
upward  as  though  into  the  eternity  into  which 
she  was  entering. 

The  consecrated  candle  shed  a  yellowish 
light  upon  her  face  impearled  with  the  sweat 
of  her  last  struggle  and  death  agony.  Her 
gray  hair,  scattered  in  a  disheveled  mass  upon 
the  pillow,  formed  a  sort  of  background  upon 
which  appeared  in  sharper  relief  her  withered 
head,  shaking  with  the  unconscious  and 
frightful  convulsions  of  death.  She  breathed 
heavily  and  slowly  and  gasped  with  effort, 
catching  the  air  with  her  pale  lips.  At  mo- 
ments her  face  would  writhe  and  her  mouth 
twitch  with  a  dreadful  spasm  of  pain  and  she 
would  raise  her  hands  as  though  she  wanted 


The  Comedienne  459 

to  tear  apart  her  throat  to  get  more  air.  Her 
white  and  fever-coated  tongue  slipped  spas- 
modically from  her  mouth  and  so  tense  did  her 
body  become  in  the  struggle  with  death  that 
the  veins  stood  out  like  black  whip  cords  on 
;her  temples  and  throat. 

The  silence  was  full  of  weeping  and  sobbing 
of  those  kneeling  about  and  the  awful  groans 
of  the  dying  woman.  Feverishly  whispered 
prayers,  tear-streaming  eyes,  the  sobbing  of 
the  servant  and  the  children  filled  the  room 
with  an  atmosphere  of  dreadful  and  over- 
whelming tragedy.  The  dark  shadows  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  trembled  as  though 
engulfing  it  all.  The  candles  diffused  a 
yellowish,  ghastly  light  that  seemed  to  steep 
everything  in  boundless  grief. 

The  room  filled  up  completely  with  kneeling 
people  and  only  she,  who  lay  there  rigid, 
unconscious,  and  dying,  reigned  from  the 
throne  of  death  over  that  bowed  throng  beg- 
ging for  mercy. 

An  old  man  with  silvery  gray  hair  made  his 
way  to  the  bed,  knelt  down,  took  a  prayer 
book  from  his  pocket  and,  by  the  light  of  the 
candle,  began  to  read  the  Penitential  Psalms. 
He  had  a  clear  and  melodious  voice  and  the 


460  The  Comedienne 

words  of  the  psalms,  like  a  murmuring  rain- 
bow, or  like  flashes  of  lightning  full  of  terror, 
tears,  might,  and  heavenly  grace,  floated  above 
the  heads  of  all  those  present: 

"Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord,  for  I  am 
weak;  O  Lord,  heal  me,  for  my  bones  are 
vexed." 

"Thou  art  my  hiding  place;  Thou  shalt  pre- 
serve me  from  trouble  .  .  . " 

"Many  sorrows  shall  be  to  the  wicked,  but 
he  that  trusteth  in  the  Lord,  mercy  shall 
compass  him  about." 

"  My  lovers  and  my  friends  stand  aloof  from 
my  sore  and  my  kinsmen  stand  afar  off." 

"They  also  that  seek  after  my  life  lay  snares 
for  me;  and  they  that  seek  for  my  hurt  speak 
mischievous  things  and  imagine  deceits  all 
day  long." 

The  words  rang  out  ever  stronger  and 
eddied  through  the  air  like  the  breath  of  a 
mighty  power  that  bent  low  all  foreheads  and 
cast  them  down  into  the  dust  with  tears  of 
sorrow,  penance,  and  supplication.  All  those 


The  Comedienne  461 

present  repeated  them  after  the  old  man  and 
that  confused,  tearful  and  monotonous  mur- 
mur of  voices  awoke  Janina  from  her  torpor. 
She  felt  that  she  was  still  alive,  so  she  knelt 
down  on  the  threshold  of  the  room  and  with 
fever-parched  lips  whispered  those  sweet 
words  long  since  forgotten,  and  drew  from 
them  a  deep  comfort  full  of  sadness  and 
tenderness. 

"Purge  me  with  hyssop  and  I  shall  be  clean; 
wash  me  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow." 

"Hide  not  thy  face  from  me,  lest  I  be  like 
unto  them  that  go  down  into  the  pit." 

"And  of  thy  mercy  cut  off  mine  enemies, 
and  destroy  all  them  that  afflict  my  soul,  for 
I  am  thy  servant." 

She  repeated  the  words  fervently  and  large 
tears  rolled  down  her  face,  uniting  with  the 
tears  of  all  the  other  mourners  and  purging  her 
soul  of  all  sorrows  and  memory  of  what  had 
passed.  But  after  a  while  those  tears  began 
to  stream  so  freely  and  stifle  her  so  that  Janina 
quietly  arose  and  left  the  place. 

On  the  street   she   met   Wladek   running 


462  The  Comedienne 

toward  the  house  in  haste  and  fear.  He 
stopped  to  ask  her  about  his  mother,  but  she 
went  on  without  even  glancing  at  him. 

Almost  all  feelings  were  dead  within  Janina, 
save  that  of  a  deathly  weariness.  She  entered 
the  lighted  Church  of  St.  Ann  on  the  Cracow 
Suburb  and,  seating  herself  in  one  of  the  pews, 
gazed  at  the  illuminated  altar  and  the  throng 
of  kneeling  worshipers.  She  heard  the 
solemn  tones  of  the  organ  and  a  wave  of  song 
rising  above  it.  She  saw  looking  at  her  from 
the  walls  and  the  altars  the  peaceful  and 
happy  faces  of  saints,  but  all  this  did  not 
awaken  a  single  emotion  in  her. 

"Thou  wilt  cut  off  mine  enemies  and  de- 
stroy all  them  that  afflict  my  soul.  Thou  wilt 
destroy  them  .  .  ."  Janina  repeated  mechani- 
cally and  left  the  church.  No,  no,  she  could 
not  pray — she  could  not. 

Janina  slept  after  all  this  with  a  deep,  stony 
sleep  that  was  free  from  dreams. 

On  the  following  day  Cabinski  gave  her  a 
big  r61e  that  used  to  be  Mimi's.  Janina 
accepted  it  with  indifference.  With  the  same 
indifference  she  went  to  Niedzielska's  funeral.' 
She  walked  at  the  end  of  the  procession 
unnoticed  by  anyone  and  gazed  indifferently 


The  Comedienne  463 

at  the  thousands  of  graves  in  the  cemetery  and 
at  the  coffin  and  not  a  scintilla  of  feeling  stirred 
in  her  even  at  the  sound  of  the  sobbing  over 
the  grave.  Something  had  broken  within  her 
and  she  had  lost  all  ability  to  feel  what  was 
going  on  about  her. 

In  the  evening  Janina  went  to  the  theater 
for  the  performance.  She  dressed  as  usual 
and  sat  thoughtlessly  gazing  at  the  rows  of 
candles  pasted  to  the  tables,  at  the  scribbled 
walls  and  at  the  rows  of  actresses  sitting  before 
their  mirrors. 

Sowinska  continually  hung  about  the  dress- 
ing-room and  observed  her  curiously. 

Her  companions  spoke  to  Janina,  but  she 
did  not  answer  them.  Every  now  and  then, 
she  fell  into  a  state  of  torpor  in  which  one 
beholds  without  seeing  anything  and  lives 
without  feeling,  while  deep  within,  at  the  very 
bottom  of  her  consciousness,  there  was 
reflected  the  image  of  that  dying  woman  and 
there  swarmed  and  hissed  those  stinging  and 
scornful  whispers  of  her  neighbors,  mixed 
with  the  words  of  the  Penitential  Psalms. 

Suddenly,  a  tremor  ran  through  Janina,  for  a 
voice  reached  her  from  the  stage  which  sounded 
like  Grzesikiewicz's;  so  she  arose  and  went  out. 


464  The  Comedienne 

Wladek  was  standing  on  the  stage,  engaged 
in  a  lively  conversation  with  Majkowska, 
whose  naked  shoulders  he  was  kissing. 

Janina  paused  behind  one  of  the  scenes,  for 
some  feeling  without  a  name  passed  through 
her  heart,  like  the  sharp,  cold  edge  of  a  dagger, 
but  was  swiftly  gone  again,  awakening  in  her  a 
certain  knowledge. 

"Mr.  Niedzielski!"  she  called. 

The  actor  threw  back  his  shoulders,  while 
across  his  clean-shaven  face  there  passed  a 
shadow  of  impatience  and  boredom.  He 
whispered  yet  a  few  words  into  the  ear  of  Mela, 
who  smiled  and  departed,  and  then,  without 
trying  to  disguise  his  ill  humor,  he  approached 
Janina. 

"Did  you  want  anything?"  he  asked 
irascibly. 

"Yes  ..." 

In  the  despondency  that  filled  her  at  that 
moment  Janina  wanted  to  tell  him  that  she 
was  unhappy  and  ill.  She  longed  to  hear  a 
warm  word  of  sympathy  and  felt  an  irresist- 
ible need  of  telling  her  troubles  to  someone 
and  of  weeping  on  some  friendly  breast,  but  on 
hearing  the  sharp  tone  of  Wladek's  voice,  she 
suddenly  remembered  how  much  she  had 


The  Comedienne  465 

suffered  through  him  and  how  base  he  was,  so 
she  suppressed  those  desires  within  herself. 

"Are  we  going  to  play  to-day?"  she  asked. 

"We  are.  There  are  about  a  hundred  ru- 
bles in  the  treasury." 

"Ask  them  for  some  money  for  me." 

"What  do  you  think!  Do  you  want  me  to 
make  a  fool  of  myself?  Moreover,  I'm  going 
right  home." 

Janina  glanced  at  him  and  said  in  a  quiet, 
expressionless  voice:  "Take  me  home,  for  I 
feel  so  very  miserable." 

"I  have  no  time,  I  must  immediately  run  to 
my  own  home,  for  already  they  are  all  waiting 
for  me  there." 

"Oh,  how  base  you  are!  How  base  you 
are!"  she  whispered. 

Wladek  recoiled  a  few  steps,  not  knowing 
whether  he  should  smile,  or  pretend  to  be 
offended. 

"Are  you  saying  that  to  me,  to  me?"  he 
asked.  He  did  not  dare  to  swear,  for  that  girl 
with  her  proud  face  and  glance  of  a  lady 
imposed  respect  upon  him  and  thrust  back  into 
his  throat,  as  it  were,  the  brutalities  that  he 
wanted  to  hurl  at  her. 

"To  you!"   Janina  answered.     "You  are 


30 


466  The  Comedienne 

base!  You  are  the  basest  person  in  the 
world  .  .  .  do  you  hear!  .  .  .  the  basest!" 

"Janina!"  he  cried  endearingly,  as  though 
he  wanted  to  shield  himself  thereby  from  her 
accusation. 

11 1  forbid  you  to  address  me  in  that  manner, 
it  insults  me!" 

"Have  you  gone  crazy,  or  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you?  What  sort  of  farce  do  you  call 
that!"  he  choked  out  in  anger. 

"  I  have  found  out  what  you  are  and  I  scorn 
you  with  my  whole  soul." 

"Whew!  So  that  is  the  kind  of  pathetic 
r61e  you  have  chosen  to  play?  Are  you  pre- 
paring it  for  your  debut  at  the  Warsaw 
Theater?" 

Janina  answered  him  only  with  a  look  of  scorn 
and  walked  away. 

Sowinska  came  up  to  her  and  with  a  myste- 
rious and  cruel  pity  in  her  voice  whispered: 
"It  isn't  good  for  you  to  get  so  irritated  and 
also,  you  ought  not  lace  yourself  so  tightly." 

"Why?" 

"It  may  harm  you,  because  .  .  .  because 
.  .  ."andshewhisperedtherestintojanina'sear. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Janina's  face  with  shame 
at  the  thought  that  Sowinska  had  recognized 


The  Comedienne  467 

her  condition  which  she  was  seeking  to  conceal. 
She  had  no  more  strength  left  to  reply  to  her, 
nor  time  either,  for  she  had  to  go  on  the  stage. 

They  were  playing  The  Peasant  Emigration 
and  Janina  appeared  in  the  first  act  as  a  super. 

In  the  men's  dressing-room  that  evening,  a 
storm  broke  out.  In  the  intermission  before 
the  so-called  "Christmas  Eve"  scene  of  the 
play,  Topolski,  who  was  acting  the  part  of 
"Bartek  Kozica,"  sent  to  Cabinski  a  letter, 
or  a  sort  of  ultimatum  demanding  fifty  rubles 
for  himself  and  Majkowska  and,  in  case  of  a 
denial,  refusing  to  play  any  further.  While 
waiting  for  Cabinski's  reply,  he  began  slowly 
to  remove  his  make-up. 

Cabinski  came  running  almost  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  and  cried:  "I  will  give  you  twenty 
rubles.  Oh,  oh!  you  people  have  no  mercy 
on  me!" 

"Give  me  fifty  rubles  and  we  shall  continue 
to  play;  if  you  don't  then  ..."  Here  he 
unglued  one  half  of  his  mustache  and  began  to 
take  off  his  leggings. 

"For  God's  sake  man!  there  is  only  one 
hundred  rubles  in  all  in  the  treasury  and  that 
is  hardly  enough  to  cover  the  expenses." 

"Let  me  have  fifty  rubles  immediately,  or 


468  The  Comedienne 

else  you  can  finish  the  play  yourself  or  return 
the  public  its  money,"  calmly  said  Topolski, 
pulling  off  his  other  legging. 

"Up  till  now,  I  had  thought  that  you,  at 
least,  were  a  man!  Just  think  what  you  are 
doing  to  us  all,"  pleaded  Cabinski. 

"Don't  you  see,  Director  ...  I  am 
undressing." 

The  intermission  was  being  prolonged  and  the 
public  outside  was  beginning  to  shout  and 
stamp  its  feet  with  impatience. 

"No,  I  should  sooner  have  expected  death 
than  that!  And  you,  who  are  my  best  friend, 
are  you  going  to  go  back  on  me  now?"  con- 
tinued Cabinski. 

"My  dear  Director,  there's  no  use  talking 
any  further.  You  can  fool  everyone  else,  but 
not  me." 

"But  I  haven't  the  money.  If  I  give  you 
thirty  rubles  now,  I  will  have  nothing  left 
with  which  to  pay  the  rent  of  the  theater!" 
cried  Cabinski  in  despair,  running  about  the 
dressing-room. 

"I  have  said:  if  you  do  not  give  us  fifty 
rubles,  we  shall  go  straight  home." 

In  the  hall  there  began  to  rise  a  very  pande- 
monium of  shouts  and  catcalls. 


The  Comedienne  469 

"All  right,  here  is  fifty  rubles,  take  them. 
You  are  robbing  your  own  companions,  but 
you  don't  care  a  rap  about  that,  for  you'll 
have  something  with  which  to  organize  your 
own  company.  Here,  take  them,  but  that 
ends  all  relations  between  us!" 

"Don't  worry  about  my  company;  I  shall 
reserve  the  position  of  a  stage-hand  for  you." 

"Sooner  will  you  check  coats  in  my  theater, 
before  I  join  yours." 
4 '  Silence,  you  clown ! ' ' 

"I'll  call  the  police  and  they'll  quiet  you 
right  away!"  shouted  the  infuriated  Cabinski. 

"I'll  silence  you  immediately,  you  circus 
performer!"  cried  Topolski,  who  had  just 
finished  dressing,  and,  taking  Cabinski  by  the 
collar,  he  gave  him  a  kick  that  sent  him  flying 
out  of  the  dressing-room ;  then  he  himself  went 
out  on  the  stage. 

The  performance  was  concluded  peacefully, 
but  a  new  quarrel  started  around  the  box 
office.  The  actors  and  actresses  stood  there 
in  a  close  group  so  that  only  their  heads  and 
faces,  shining  with  the  grease  used  to  wash  off 
the  paint,  were  visible  in  the  gaslight.  They 
were  all  shouting  for  money  and  demanding 
their  overdue  salaries.  They  shook  their 


The  Comedienne 


fists  threateningly  at  the  cashier's  window, 
their  eyes  flashed  lightning,  and  their  voices 
were  hoarse  from  shouting. 

Cabinski,  still  red  and  trembling  from  the 
abuse  that  had  just  met  him,  quarreled  with 
everybody  and  swore  and  wanted  to  pay  only 
the  usual  installments. 

"  Whoever  isn't  satisfied  with  what  he  gets, 
let  him  go  to  Topolski!  It's  all  the  same  to 
me  .  .  ."he  cried. 

Janina  approached  the  window  and  said: 
"Director,  you  promised  to  pay  me  to-day." 

"I  haven't  the  money!" 

"But  neither  have  I,"  she  begged  quietly. 

"I  am  not  paying  the  others  either,  and  yet, 
they  do  not  importune  me  as  you  do." 

"Mr.  Cabinski,  I  am  almost  dying  from 
hunger,"  she  answered  straightforwardly. 

"Then  go  and  earn  some  money.  All  the 
others  know  how  to  help  themselves.  I  like 
naive  women,  but  only  on  the  stage.  A 
comedienne!  Go  to  Topolski,  he  will  advance 
you  the  money." 

"Oh,  Topolski  assuredly  won't  let  the  mem- 
bers of  his  company  suffer  poverty.  He  will 
pay  each  what  is  due  him  and  will  not  cheat 
people!"  cried  Janina  impulsively. 


The  Comedienne  471 

"Then  you  can  go  straight  to  him  and  don't 
show  up  here  again!"  shouted  Cabinski, 
driven  to  fury  by  the  mention  of  Topolski. 

"Listen  there,  Director!"  began  Glas,  but 
Janina  listened  no  longer  and,  pushing  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  left  the  theater. 

"Go  and  earn  it  ..."  she  repeated  to 
herself. 

She  walked  along  the  almost  empty  streets. 
The  gas-lamps  cast  a  ghastly,  yellowish  glare 
like  that  of  funeral  tapers  on  the  silent  and 
deserted  thoroughfares  and  alleys.  The  dark- 
blue  vault  of  the  sky  hung  over  the  city  like  a 
huge  canopy  embroidered  with  brightly  scintil- 
lating stars.  A  cool  breeze  swept  down  the 
streets  and  chilled  Janina  to  the  marrow. 

"Go  and  earn  it!"  she  again  repeated  to 
herself,  passing  before  the  Grand  Theater. 
She  had  come  here  without  being  aware  of  it. 

Janina  glanced  at  the  building  and  turned 
back.  An  unbearable  pain  racked  her  head, 
as  though  there  was  a  burning  iron  ring  about 
it.  She  was  so  utterly  weak  and  worn-out 
that  at  moments  she  could  scarcely  resist  the 
desire  to  sit  down  on  the  curbstone  and 
remain  there.  Then  again,  so  desperate  a 
realization  of  her  poverty  filled  her  that  she 


472  The  Comedienne 

was  almost  ready  to  give  herself  to  anyone 
who  might  ask,  if  she  could  only  relieve  that 
agonized  trembling  within  herself,  that  almost 
deathly  weakness  and  exhaustion. 

She  dragged  herself  heavily  along  the 
streets,  for  she  no  longer  knew  what  to  do, 
and  the  chill  night  air,  the  silence,  and  that 
deathly  weariness  gave  her  a  sort  of  painful 
ecstasy.  Before  her  eyes  there  hovered  only 
phantom  forms  and  fiery  spots,  so  that  she 
knew  not  where  she  was  or  what  was  happen- 
ing to  her.  She  felt  only  one  thing  and  that 
was  that  she  would  no  longer  be  able  to  endure 
it. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  further?'*  Janina 
asked  thoughtlessly,  looking  before  herself. 

The  silence  of  the  sleeping  city  and  the  si- 
lence of  the  dark  heavens  seemed  to  be  the  only 
answer  to  her  question. 

Janina  felt  as  though  she  were  falling 
swiftly  down  a  steep  incline  and  that  there, 
at  the  very  bottom,  lay  the  outstretched 
corpse  of  Niedzielska. 

"Death!"  she  answered  herself.  "Death!" 
and  she  gazed  fixedly  at  that  dead  face  with 
the  congealed  tears  on  its  cheeks,  and  not  fear, 
but  an  immense  silence  enveloped  her  soul. 


The  Comedienne  473 

She  looked  all  about  her  as  though  she  were 
seeking  for  the  cause  of  that  deep  silence  at  her 
side. 

Then,  she  began  thinking  of  her  father,  of 
the  theater,  and  of  herself,  but  as  though  they 
were  things  which  she  had  only  seen  or  read 
about. 

''What  am  I  going  to  do?"  Janina  asked 
herself  aloud  after  she  had  returned  home.  It 
was  impossible  for  her  to  see  or  even  to  imagine 
what  the  morrow  would  be  like. 

"In  this  condition  I  can't  go  to  the  theater, 
I  can't  go  anywhere.  But  what  am  I  going  to 
do?  "  That  question  smote  her  now  and  then, 
as  with  a  club. 

Day  began  to  dawn  and  flood  the  room  with 
its  drab  and  gray  light,  but  Janina  still  sat 
on  the  same  spot,  gazing  blankly  out  of  the 
window,  with  deeply  sunken  eyes  and  whisper- 
ing with  lips  blackened  by  fever:  "What  am  I 
going  to  do?  What  am  I  going  to  do?  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  season  ended.  Cabinski  was  leaving 
for  Plock  with  an  entirely  new  company, 
for  Topolski  had  taken  away  his  best  forces 
and  the  rest  had  scattered  among  various 
companies. 

In  the  pastry  shop  on  Nowy  Swiat,  Krzy- 
kiewicz,  who  had  broken  with  Ciepieszewski, 
was  organizing  a  company  of  his  own.  Stanis- 
lawski  was  also  starting  a  small  company  on 
a  profit-sharing  basis.  Topolski  was  already 
preparing  his  company  for  its  trip  to  Lublin. 

The  local  garden-theaters  were  all  closed 
for  the  season  and  a  deathly  silence  reigned 
over  them.  The  stages  were  boarded  up  and 
the  dressing-rooms  and  entrances  locked.  The 
verandas  were  strewn  with  broken  chairs 
and  rubbish.  The  autumn  leaves  fluttered 
from  the  trees  and  torn  scraps  of  programs  of 
the  last  performances  rustled  about  sadly 
in  the  breeze.  The  season  was  over. 

Nobody  visited  the  theater  any  more,  for 

474 


The  Comedienne  475 

the  migratory  birds  were  preparing  for  their 
flight,  only  Janina  from  force  of  habit,  still 
would  come  here,  gaze  a  moment  at  the 
deserted  haunts  and  return  again. 

Cabinska  wrote  her  a  very  cordial  letter, 
inviting  her  to  her  home.  Janina  went  there 
and  found  that  they  were  already  packing  up 
for  their  journey.  Immense  trunks  and  bas- 
kets stood  in  the  middle  of  the  rooms,  a  large 
pile  of  various  stage  paraphernalia  together 
with  mattresses  and  bedding  lay  on  the  floor — 
the  entire  outfit  of  a  nomadic  life. 

In  Cabinska' s  room,  Janina  no  longer  found 
either  the  wreaths  or  the  furniture,  or  the 
canopied  bed ;  there  shone  only  the  bare  walls 
with  the  plaster  broken  here  and  there  by  the 
hasty  removal  of  pictures  and  the  pulling  out 
of  hooks.  A  long  basket  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  the  nurse,  perspiring  from  her 
exertion,  was  packing  into  it  Pepa's  wardrobe. 
Cabinska,  with  a  cigarette  in  her  mouth, 
directed  the  packing  and  continually  scolded 
the  children,  who  were  tumbling  in  great  glee 
over  the  mattresses  and  the  straw  strewn  about 
the  packages. 

She  greeted  Janina  with  exaggerated  cor- 
diality and  said:  " There  is  such  a  dust  in  here 


476  The  Comedienne 

that  it  is  unbearable.  Nurse,  be  careful  how 
you  pack,  so  that  you  don't  crush  my  dresses. 
Let  us  go  out  on  the  street,"  she  said  to  Janina, 
putting  on  her  coat  and  hat. 

She  pulled  Janina  along  to  her  pastry  shop 
and  there,  over  a  cup  of  chocolate,  began  to 
apologize  to  her  for  the  discourtesy  that 
Cabinski  had  shown  her  at  the  box  office. 

"Believe  me,  the  director  was  so  excited 
that  he  really  did  not  know  what  he  was  saying. 
And  can  you  wonder  at  it?  He  was  giving  his 
best  efforts  and  even  pawning  his  personal 
effects,  only  that  the  company  might  lack 
nothing  and,  in  the  meanwhile,  along  comes 
Topolski,  creates  a  rumpus  and  breaks  up  his 
company.  Even  a  saint  would  lose  patience 
in  those  circumstances  and,  moreover,  Topol- 
ski told  my  husband  that  you  were  going  to 
join  his  company." 

Janina  answered  nothing,  for  she  was  now 
entirely  indifferent  toward  the  whole  matter, 
but  when  Cabinska  told  her  that  on  that  very 
afternoon  they  were  leaving  for  Plock  and  that 
she  should  immediately  pack  her  things,  for 
the  expressman  would  call  for  them  directly,  she 
answered  with  decision:  "Thank  you  for  your 
kindness,  Mrs.  Directress,  but  I  shall  not  go." 


The  Comedienne  477 

Cabinska  could  scarcely  believe  her  ears  and 
cried  out  in  amazement:  "Have  you  already 
secured  an  engagement  and  where?'* 

"Nowhere,  nor  do  I  intend  to,"  answered 
the  girl. 

"How  is  that!  Are  you  going  to  abandon 
the  stage?  You  who  have  a  big  future  before 
you!" 

"I  have  had  more  than  enough  of  acting," 
answered  Janina  with  bitterness. 

"Come  now,  don't  reproach  me  with  it, 
you  know  it's  your  first  year  on  the  stage 
and  they  wouldn't  give  you  big  r61es  at  once, 
anywhere." 

"Oh,  I  am  no  longer  going  to  try  for  them." 

"And  I  had  already  been  planning  that  in 
Plock  you  would  live  together  with  us  and 
that  would  not  only  make  it  easier  for  you, 
but  my  daughter  also  could  derive  more 
benefit  from  it.  Please  think  it  over  and  I, 
on  my  part,  assure  you  that  you  will  also  get 
roles." 

"No,  no!  I  have  enough  of  poverty  and 
have  absolutely  no  more  strength  left  to  bear 
it  any  further  and,  moreover,  I  cannot,  I 
cannot  ..."  answered  Janina  quietly,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  for  that  proposal  flashed 


478  The  Comedienne 

before  her  mind  like  the  dawn  of  a  better  future 
and  awakened  for  a  moment  her  old  enthusi- 
asm and  dreams  of  artistic  triumph.  But 
immediately  she  thought  of  her  present  condi- 
tion and  the  sufferings  that  she  would  have  to 
endure  on  that  account,  so  she  added  with 
even  greater  emphasis:  "No,  I  cannot!  I 
cannot!" 

But  she  could  not  hold  back  the  tears  which 
continued  to  stream  quietly  down  her  face 
until  even  Cabinska  was  touched  and,  drawing 
nearer  to  her,  whispered  with  sincere  sym- 
pathy, "For  God's  sake  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Tell  me,  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to 
help  you." 

In  reply  Janina  blushed  faintly,  warmly 
clasped  Cabinska's  hand,  and  hastily  left  the 
pastry  shop. 

Tears  were  stifling  her;  life  was  stifling  her. 

Immediately  afterward  Stanislawski  came 
to  Janina  and  urged  her  to  leave  with  him  for 
the  small  provincial  towns.  He  was  organiz- 
ing a  company  of  from  eight  to  nine  persons 
in  which  each  was  to  hold  a  share.  He  offered 
Janina  leading  r61es  and  spoke  in  glowing 
terms  of  the  certain  success  that  awaited  them 
in  the  provincial  towns.  He  enumerated  all 


The  Comedienne  479 

those  whom  he  was  engaging:  all  young  people 
and  novices,  full  of  energy,  zeal,  and  talent. 
And  he  promised  himself  that  he  would  lead 
them  along  the  path  of  true  art,  that  his 
company  would  be  in  the  nature  of  a  school  for 
drama  and  that  he  would  be  a  real  teacher 
and  father,  who  would  make  of  these  people 
true  artists  worthy  of  the  theater  and  its 
traditions. 

Janina  refused  Stanislawski  briefly.  She 
thanked  him  heartily  for  the  kindness  he  had 
shown  her  during  the  summer  and  took  leave 
of  him  cordially,  as  though  forever. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  determined  finally  to 
end  it  all.  She  had  not  yet  told  herself  deci- 
sively: "I  will  die!"  So  far,  if  someone  had 
told  her  that  she  was  contemplating  suicide 
she  would  have  denied  it  sincerely,  but  already 
that  thought  and  desire  were  lurking  in  the 
subconscious  depths  of  her  mind. 

Janina  knew  when  the  Cabinskis  were 
leaving,  so  she  went  down  to  the  steamboat 
landing.  She  stood  upon  the  bridge  and 
watched  them  steam  away.  She  gazed  at  the 
gray  waves  of  the  Wisla  splashing  against  the 
sides  of  the  pier  and  at  the  distant  horizon 
veiled  in  autumn  mists,  and  such  an  intense 


480  The  Comedienne 

sadness  and  grief  overwhelmed  her  that  she 
could  not  move  from  the  spot,  or  tear  her  eyes 
away  from  the  water. 

Night  fell  and  Janina  still  stood  there,  gaz- 
ing before  her.  The  rows  of  lights  on  the  river 
banks  sprang  up  from  the  darkness  like  golden 
flowers  and  dotted  the  rocking,  greenish  sur- 
face of  the  water  with  quivering  gleams.  The 
din  and  hum  of  the  city  echoed  dimly  behind 
her,  the  hacks  sped  with  noisy  clatter  across 
the  bridge,  the  bells  of  the  tramcars  clanged 
incessantly,  crowds  of  people  passed  by  with 
laughter;  sometimes  the  echo  of  a  song  reached 
Janina,  or  the  merry  tones  of  a  hand  organ, 
then  again,  a  warm  breath  of  wind,  saturated 
with  the  raw  odor  of  the  river,  fanned  her 
feverish  face.  All  these  sights  and  sounds 
beat  against  her  as  against  a  lifeless  statue  and 
rebounded  again  without  making  any  impres- 
sion on  her. 

The  water  in  its  depths  began  to  pass 
through  ever  stranger  transformations:  it 
turned  black,  but  that  blackness  was  inter- 
woven with  gleams  of  light,  flames  of  red, 
streaks  of  violet,  and  rays  of  yellow,  like  the 
glowing  flame  of  pain.  There,  in  those  silent 
depths,  there  seemed  to  be  a  better  and  fuller 


The  Comedienne  481 

life,  for  the  waves  murmured  so  joyously, 
broke  against  the  piers  and  stone  bulwarks  and, 
as  though  with  frenzied  laughter,  united  again, 
blended,  tumbled  over  one  another  and  flowed 
on.  Janina  seemed  almost  to  hear  their 
care  free  laughter,  their  calling  to  one  another 
and  their  voice  of  mighty  joy. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  suddenly  said 
a  voice  behind  her. 

Janina  trembled  and  turned  around  slowly. 
Wolska  was  standing  before  her  and  curiously 
and  uneasily  watching  her. 

"Oh,  nothing,  I  was  just  gazing  about." 

"Come  with  me,  the  air  here  isn't  healthy," 
said  Wolska,  taking  Janina  by  the  arm,  for 
she  read  in  her  dimmed  eyes  a  suicidal 
intent. 

Janina  allowed  herself  to  be  led  away  and 
only  after  they  had  gone  some  distance,  she 
asked  quietly,  "So  you  have  not  left  with 
Cabinski?"  ' 

1 '  I  couldn't.  You  see,  my  Johnnie's  health  is 
again  worse.  The  doctor  has  forbidden  me  to 
move  him  from  bed  and  I  believe  that  it  would 
kill  him, ' '  whispered  Wolska  sadly.  ' '  I  had  to 
stay,  for,  of  course,  I  can't  send  him  to  the 
hospital.  If  it  comes  to  the  worst,  we  shall 


482  The  Comedienne 

die  together,  but  I  will  not  forsake  him.     The 
doctor  still  gives  me  some  hope  that  he  will 


recover." 


Janina  gazed  with  a  strange  feeling  at  the 
face  of  Wolska  which,  though  worn  and  faded, 
beamed  with  a  deep  motherly  love.  She 
looked  like  a  beggar  woman  in  her  dark, 
stained  cloak  and  gray  dress,  frayed  at  the 
bottom;  she  wore  a  straw  hat  and  black 
mended  gloves  and  carried  a  parasol  which  was 
rusty  from  continual  use.  But  through  all 
this  poverty  there  shone,  as  bright  as  the  sun, 
her  love  for  her  child.  She  saw  and  heeded 
nothing  else,  for  all  that  did  not  concern  her 
child  had  no  meaning  for  her. 

Janina  walked  alongside  of  her,  gazing  with 
admiration  at  this  woman.  She  knew  her 
story.  Wolska  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  and 
intelligent  family.  She  fell  in  love  with  an 
actor,  or  else  with  the  theater  itself,  and  went 
on  the  stage  and,  although  later  her  lover 
abandoned  her  and  she  suffered  poverty  and 
humiliation,  she  could  not  tear  herself  away 
from  the  theater  and  now,  she  centered  all  her 
love  and  all  her  hopes  upon  her  child  that  had 
been  seriously  ill  since  the  spring. 

''Where  does  she  get  all  her  strength?" 


The  Comedienne  483 

thought  Janina  and  then,  turning  to  Wolska, 
she  asked:  "What  are  you  doing  now?" 

Wolska  shuddered,  a  faint  blush  flitted  over 
her  worn  face  and  her  lips  quivered  with  a 
painful  expression  as  she  answered :  "  I  sing  .  .  . 
What  else  could  I  do?  I  must  live  and  must 
earn  enough  to  pay  Johnnie's  doctor  bills. 
I  must.  Although  it  fills  me  with  shame  to 
do  it,  I  must.  Alas,  such  is  my  fate,  such  is 
my  fate!"  she  moaned  complainingly. 

"But  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Janina,  who  could  not  understand  why  Wolska 
should  feel  ashamed  to  earn  a  living  by  singing. 

"Because,  you  see,  Miss  Janina,  I  don't 
want  anybody  to  know  about  it.  ...  You 
will  keep  it  to  yourself,  won't  you?"  she 
begged  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Certainly  I  give  you  my  word.  More- 
over, whom  would  I  tell  .  .  .  ?  I  am  all  alone 
in  the  world." 

"I  sing  in  a  restaurant  on  Podwal  St.,"  said 
Wolska  in  a  low  and  hurried  voice. 

"  In  a  restaurant! "  whispered  Janina,  stand- 
ing stock-still  in  amazement. 

"  What  else  could  I  do?  Tell  me,  what  else 
could  I  do?  I  need  money  for  food  and  rent. 
How  else  could  I  earn  it,  when  I  don't  even 


484  The  Comedienne 

know  how  to  sew?  At  home  I  knew  how  to 
play  on  the  piano  a  bit  and  could  speak  a  little 
French,  but  of  course,  that  would  not  bring  me 
a  penny  now.  I  saw  an  advertisement  in  the 
Courier  for  a  singer,  so  I  went  there  and  got  the 
position.  They  pay  me  a  ruble  a  day  together 
with  meals  and  ..."  but  tears  choked  her 
voice  and  she  grasped  Janina's  hand  and 
pressed  it  feverishly.  Janina  returned  the 
hand-clasp  with  a  similar  one  and  they  walked 
on  in  silence. 

"Come  along  with  me,  won't  you?  It  will 
make  me  feel  a  little  more  at  ease, "  said  Wol  ska. 

Janina  willingly  agreed. 

They  entered  the  restaurant  "Under  the 
Bridge"  on  Podwal  St.  It  was  a  long  and 
narrow  garden  with  a  few  miserable  trees. 
At  the  very  entrance  there  was  a  well.  A 
whitewashed  fence  on  the  left  side  of  the 
garden  divided  it  from  the  neighboring  prop- 
erty which  must  have  been  a  lumberyard, 
for  piles  of  beams  and  boards  could  be  seen 
looming  above  the  fence.  A  few  kerosene 
lanterns  illuminated  the  place.  A  number  of 
little  white  tables  with  varnished  tops  and 
around  them  three  times  that  number  of 
rough-hewn  chairs  constituted  the  entire  fur- 


The  Comedienne  485 

nishings  of  that  summer  restaurant.  A  small 
office  on  the  ground  floor  and  the  top  of  the 
neighboring  house  enclosed  the  right  side  of 
the  garden,  while  at  the  back  there  arose  a 
high,  rough  brick  wall  with  small,  dirty,  and 
barred  windows ;  it  was  the  rear  of  the  former 
Kochanowski  Palace,  standing  on  the  corner 
of  Miodowa  and  Kapitulna  Streets. 

Near  the  fence,  a  small  stage  shaded  by  a 
canvas  roof  with  its  two  open  sides  facing 
toward  the  audience,  formed  a  sort  of  niche, 
the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  a  cheap, 
blue  paper  dotted  with  silver  stars.  The 
smoking  kerosene  footlights  on  one  side  of 
the  stage  cast  a  drab  light  upon  a  musician 
with  a  disheveled  gray  beard  and  grease- 
stained  coat,  who  was  pounding  away  at  the 
keyboard  of  a  wretched  piano  with  an  auto- 
matic motion  of  his  arms  and  head. 

The  garden  was  filled  with  a  public  of  work- 
ing-class people  and  those  from  the  poorer 
section  of  the  city. 

Janina  and  Wolska  pushed  their  way 
through  the  crowd  to  that  little  office  building 
in  which  there  was  a  dressing-room  for  the 
performers,  divided  into  a  men's  and  women's 
compartment  by  a  red  cretonne  curtain. 


486  The  Comedienne 

"I  am  already  waiting!"  came  a  hoarse, 
drunken  voice  from  behind  the  curtain. 

"You  can  begin  your  part,  I  will  come  right 
away!"  answered  Wolska,  dressing  herself  in 
feverish  haste  in  a  grotesque,  red  costume. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  all  ready  for  her 
appearance.  Janina  followed  her  out  and  took 
a  seat  facing  the  stage.  Wolska,  all  flushed 
with  hurrying  and  still  closing  the  last  buttons 
and  hooks  of  her  costume,  appeared  on  the 
stage,  greeting  the  public  with  a  long  bow. 
The  musician  struck  the  yellow  keys  and  at 
the  same  moment  there  arose  the  tones  of  a 
song: 

Once  upon  a  stump  among  the  hills, 
Between  the  oaks  there  sat  two  turtle-doves, 
And  I  know  not  for  what  sport  of  love's 
They  kissed  each  other  with  their  bills. 

The  strains  of  the  old,  sentimental  song 
from  The  Cracovians  and  the  Mountaineers 
floated  on,  interruped  only  by  frequent  bursts 
of  applause,  the  banging  of  beer  glasses  against 
the  tables,  the  clatter  of  plates,  the  slamming 
of  doors  and  the  reports  or  rifles  in  the  shoot- 
ing galleries.  The  lanterns  diffused  a  hazy 
and  muddy  light;  girls  in  white  aprons  and 


The  Comedienne  487 

with  their  hands  full  of  beer  glasses,  passed  in 
and  out  among  the  tables,  flirted  with  the 
drinking  men  and  flung  cynical  remarks  and 
answers  at  those  who  accosted  them.  Ribald 
laughter  and  coarse  jokes  flew  around  like 
fire-works  and  were  immediately  answered  by 
broad,  thoughtless  merriment. 

The  public  expressed  its  satisfaction  with 
the  singing  by  shouting,  beating  time  with 
their  canes,  and  banging  their  beer  glasses. 
At  moments  the  wind  would  entirely  drown 
out  the  singing,  or  bend  the  few  wretched 
trees  with  a  rustling  sound  and  scatter  the 
leaves  over  the  stage  and  the  heads  of  the 
public. 

Wolska  continued  to  sing.  Her  red  vaude- 
ville costume,  with  low-cut  front,  gleamed  like 
a  gaudy  spot  against  the  blue  background  of 
the  stage  and  excellently  accentuated  her  thin, 
thickly  painted  face,  her  sunken  and  pale 
eyes,  and  her  sharp  features  which  looked  like 
the  skeleton-like  face  of  a  starving  man.  She 
swayed  from  side  to  side  with  a  heavy  motion 
to  the  measure  of  the  song: 

Such  ardent  love  took  hold  of  me, 
I  embraced  Stach  most  tenderly. 


488  The  Comedienne 

Her  voice  floated  through  the  garden  with  a 
hollow,  rasping  sound  and  added  to  the  din 
made  by  that  noisy  and  drunken  crowd. 
Brutal  laughs  broke  out  in  sharp,  penetrating 
scales,  and  those  bravos  emitted  by  the  drunken 
threats  of  a  Sunday  public  and  interrupted  by 
hiccoughs,  beat  against  the  stage  with  a  hoarse 
and  hollow  roar  together  with  the  biting 
jibes  that  were  not  spared  the  singer.  But  she 
heard  nothing  and  sang  on,  indifferent  and 
cold  to  all  that  surrounded  her.  She  flung 
forth  tones,  words,  and  mimicry  with  the 
automatism  of  a  hypnotized  woman,  only  at 
moments,  her  eyes  would  seek  Janina's  as 
though  they  were  begging  for  pity. 

Janina  grew  pale  and  red  by  turns,  unable 
to  endure  any  longer  that  alcohol-saturated 
atmosphere  and  that  drunken  din  which  filled 
her  with  aversion  and  disgust. 

"I  would  rather  die!"  she  thought.  Oh, 
no,  she  would  never  be  able  to  amuse  such  a 
public.  She  would  spit  in  its  eyes  and  scorn 
herself  and  then  ...  if  there  were  no  other 
way  out  .  .  .  drown  herself  in  the  Wisla! 

Wolska  finished  her  song  and  her  partner, 
dressed  in  a  Cracovian  costume,  went  about 
among  the  drinking  crowd  with  his  notes  in  his 


The  Comedienne  489 

hand,  collecting  money.  Remarks  that  froze 
one  with  their  cynicism  and  brutal  frankness, 
were  hurled  into  his  face,  but  he  only  smiled 
with  the  dull  smile  of  a  habitual  drunkard, 
nervously  twitched  his  lips  and  humbly  bowed 
his  thanks  for  those  ten-copeck  pieces  that 
were  thrown  on  his  notes. 

Wolska,  with  closed  eyes,  stood  beside  the 
piano,  nervously  tugged  at  the  golden  lace  of 
her  waist  and,  groaning  with  painful  anxiety, 
counted  in  her  mind  the  number  of  copecks 
which  her  partner  placed  together  with  the 
notes  beside  her.  The  pianist  again  struck 
the  keys  and  Wolska  and  her  partner  began  to 
sing  together  some  comic  couplets,  interwoven 
with  a  kind  of  "Krakowiak"  which  they 
danced  in  a  half  dreamy  manner. 

Janina  could  hardly  wait  for  the  end  of  the 
performance  and,  without  saying  anything 
about  the  impression  that  that  drinking  den 
had  made  on  her,  she  took  leave  of  Wolska  and 
fairly  ran  away  from  that  garden,  that  public, 
and  that  degradation. 

During  the  entire  day  following,  she  did  not 
leave  her  home.  She  ate  nothing  and  hardly 
thought  at  all,  but  lay  in  bed  and  gazed 
blankly  at  the  ceiling,  following  with  her  eyes, 


490  The  Comedienne 

the  last  fly  that  crept  drowsily  and  half  dead 
over  it. 

In  the  evening,  Sowinska  came  in,  sat  down 
on  a  trunk  and,  without  any  introduction, 
said  harshly:  "The  room  is  already  rented  to 
another  tenant,  so  to-morrow  you  can  clear 
out  of  here.  And  since  you  owe  us  fifteen 
rubles,  I  will  keep  all  your  duds  and  give  them 
back  to  you  only  when  you  pay  me  the 
money." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Janina  and  she 
looked  at  Sowinska  indifferently,  as  though 
nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  were  at  stake. 
"Very  well,  I  shall  go!"  she  added  in  a  quieter 
tone  and  arose  from  the  bed. 

"You  will  doubtlessly  manage  to  help  your- 
self in  some  way,  won't  you?  You  will  yet  come 
to  see  me  in  a  carriage,  eh?"  said  Sowinska 
and  an  ugly,  hostile  light  gleamed  in  her  owlish 
eyes. 

"Very  well,"  repeated  Janina  in  the  same 
mechanical  way  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room. 

Sowinska,  growing  tired  of  waiting  for  some 
kind  of  reply,  left  the  room. 

"So  all  is  ended!"  whispered  Janina  in  a 
hollow  voice  and  the  thought  of  death  became 


The  Comedienne  49 l 

a  conscious  reality  in  her  mind  and  shone 
alluringly. 

"What  is  death?  A  forgetting,  a  forget- 
ting!" she  answered  herself  aloud,  standing 
still  and  sinking  her  eyes  in  those  murky  deeps 
that  opened  up  before  her  soul. 

"Yes,  a  forgetting,  a  forgetting!"  she 
repeated  slowly  and  for  a  long  time  sat  motion- 
less, gazing  at  the  flame  of  the  lamp. 

The  night  dragged  on  slowly,  the  house 
became  quiet,  the  lights  were  gradually  extin- 
guished in  the  long  rows  of  windows  and  an 
ever  deeper  silence  spread  itself  about,  until 
everything  became  steeped  in  this  drowsy 
silence. 

The  gray  light  of  dawn  was  already  begin- 
ning to  streak  the  horizon  and  to  illumine  the 
faint  outlines  of  the  housetops  when  Janina 
awoke  from  her  torpor  and  gazed  about  the 
room.  She  felt  fully  determined,  so  she  sprang 
up  from  her  chair  and,  driven  on  by  some 
thought  that  lit  up  her  eyes  with  a  strange 
fire,  walked  quietly  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
But  the  noisy  click  of  the  latch  which  she 
closed  after  her  penetrated  her  with  such  a 
strange,  sharp  fear  that  she  reeled  back  against 
the  frame  of  the  door  and  breathed  heavily  for 


492  The  Comedienne 

a  few  moments.  Finally,  she  quietly  pulled 
off  her  shoes  and  boldly,  but  with  the  utmost 
caution,  passed  through  the  hall  and  entered 
a  large  room  adjoining  the  kitchen  which  was 
used  as  a  dining  room  and  a  workroom  in  the 
day  time  and  as  a  sleeping  room  for  Mme. 
Anna's  apprentices  at  night.  The  close  and 
heavy  air  of  the  room  almost  suffocated  Janina. 
With  outstretched  hands  and  bated  breath, 
she  stole  toward  the  kitchen  so  slowly  that 
those  minutes  seemed  an  eternity  to  her.  At 
moments,  she  paused  and,  overcoming  her 
trembling — that  awful  trembling — listened  to 
the  loud  breathing  and  snoring  of  those  sleep- 
ing there  and  then  went  on  again,  setting  her 
teeth  with  a  desperate  strength.  Large  drops 
of  perspiration  rolled  down  her  forehead  from 
exertion  and  fear  and  her  heart  beat  so  slowly 
and  painfully  that  she  almost  felt  the  pulsation 
of  it  in  her  throat.  The  kitchen  door  was  open 
and  Janina  passed  through  it  like  a  shadow, 
but  she  stumbled  against  the  bed  of  the  ser- 
vant-girl, which  stood  very  near  the  door.  She 
grew  numb  with  fear  and  for  a  long  time  stood 
motionless  and  breathless,  almost  in  a  state 
of  suspended  animation,  gazing  with  terrified 
eyes  at  the  bed  whose  dim  outlines  she  could 


The  Comedienne  493 

scarcely  make  out  in  the  darkness.  But 
finally,  rallying  all  her  strength  and  courage, 
she  walked  boldly  to  the  shelf  upon  which 
stood  various  kitchen  utensils  and  supplies 
and  felt  one  after  another  with  the  greatest 
caution,  until  finally,  her  hand  rested  upon  a 
flat  oblong  bottle  containing  essence  of  vine- 
gar. She  had  seen  it  here  a  few  hours  ago  and 
now,  having  found  it,  she  snatched  it  up  so 
violently  from  among  the  other  articles  that 
a  tin  cover  fell  with  a  crash  upon  the  floor. 
Janina  unconsciously  bent  her  head  in  terror, 
for  the  clash  of  the  falling  cover  resounded 
with  such  a  tremendous  echo  in  her  brain  that 
it  seemed  as  though  the  whole  world  were 
crashing  down  on  her. 

"Who's  there?"  called  the  servant,  awak- 
ened by  the  noise.  "Who's  there?"  she 
repeated  in  a  louder  voice. 

"It  is  I  .  .  .  I  came  for  a  drink  of  water," 
answered  Janina  with  a  choking  voice,  after 
a  long  while,  nervously  pressing  the  bottle  to 
her  breast .  The  servant  indistinctly  mumbled 
something  and  did  not  speak  again. 

Janina  ran  to  her  room,  as  though  pursued 
by  the  furies  of  madness,  no  longer  caring 
whether  anyone  heard  her  or  might  awaken 


494  The  Comedienne 

and,  having  reached  it,  locked  the  door  and 
only  then  collapsed,  half  dead  from,  exhaustion 
and  trembled  so  violently  that  she  thought 
she  would  fall  to  pieces.  The  tears,  which 
she  did  not  even  feel,  began  to  stream  down 
her  face.  They  gave  her  so  great  a  relief 
that  she  fell  asleep.  In  the  morning  Sowinska 
again  reminded  her  that  it  was  time  to  move 
and,  brutally  opening  the  door  before  her, 
told  her  to  get  out.  Janina  dressed  hastily  and, 
without  answering  a  word,  left  the  house. 

She  walked  along  the  streets,  feeling  nothing 
but  her  homelessness  and  that  dizziness  in  her 
head  which  was  engulfing  all  her  thoughts. 
She  passed  through  Nowy  Swiat  and  the 
Ujazdowskie  Allees  and  did  not  stop  until  she 
reached  the  lake  in  Lazienki  Park. 

The  trees  stood  dying  and  their  yellow 
leaves  spread  a  golden  carpet  over  the  paths. 
The  tranquillity  of  an  autumn  day  hung  in  the 
air  and  only  now  and  then  a  flock  of  sparrows 
flew  by  with  a  noisy  twitter,  or  the  swans  upon 
the  lake  cried  out  mournfully  and  beat  with 
their  wings  the  muddy-green  water  that  looked 
like  worn  velvet.  All  around  could  be  seen 
the  destruction  wrought  by  the  hand  of  golden 
autumn.  Wherever  it  touched  the  trees, 


The  Comedienne  495 

there  the  leaves  withered  and  fell  to  the  ground, 
the  grass  dried  up  and  the  last  autumn  asters 
bent  their  lifeless  heads  and  dripped  with  dew, 
as  though  weeping  tears  after  death. 

"Death!"  whispered  Janina,  pressing  in  her 
hands  the  bottle  that  she  had  secured  on  the 
previous  night  and  she  sat  down,  perhaps  on 
the  same  bench  on  which  she  had  sat  that 
spring.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  slowly 
drowsing  away  and  that  her  thoughts  were 
fading,  for  her  consciousness  had  begun  to 
disintegrate  and  she  was  already  ceasing  to 
feel  and  to  know.  Everything  was  falling 
away  from  her  and  dying,  like  the  nature 
about  her  that  also  seemed  to  be  burning  out 
and  drawing  its  last  breath. 

A  rapturous  feeling,  full  of  peace  and  calm, 
filled  Janina' s  heart,  for  the  entire  past  was 
vanishing  from  her  memory;  all  her  miseries, 
all  her  disappointments,  and  all  her  struggles 
faded  away,  paled  and  dispersed,  as  though 
absorbed  by  that  pale  autumn  sun  that  hung 
over  the  park.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
never  passed  through  them,  never  felt  any- 
thing, never  suffered  anything.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  curling  up  within  herself, 
growing  smaller  and  shrinking,  like  that 


496  The  Comedienne 

withered  leaf  that  hung  upon  the  barbed  wire 
of  the  fence,  all  ready  to  drop  and  be  hurled 
down  into  the  abyss  of  death  by  that  light 
breath  of  wind.  Then  again  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  ripping  to  pieces,  like  that  spider 
web  that  tangled  itself  about  the  grass  and 
floated  in  glistening  filaments  through  the  air; 
that  she  was  unwinding  into  such  gossamer 
strands,  into  ever  finer  and  finer  filaments, 
until  she  had  vanished  away  into  infinity  and 
lost  all  consciousness  of  herself.  This  feeling 
moved  her  strongly  and  a  strange  tenderness 
and  pity  for  herself  filled  her  heart  with 
sorrow. 

"Poor  girl!  How  unhappy  she  is!"  whis- 
pered Janina,  as  though  she  was  speaking  of 
some  other  person. 

Janina' s  soul  was  so  rapidly  disintegrating  in 
its  agony  that  she  no  longer  had  a  full  and  clear 
conception  of  what  the  miseries  were  that  had 
vanquished  her,  what  misfortunes  had  broken 
her,  nor  did  she  know  why  she  was  weeping  or 
who  she  was. 

"Death!"  she  repeated  mechanically  and 
that  word  found  a  deep  and  unconscious  echo 
in  her  brain  and  nerves  and  pressed  only  a 
few  tears  from  her  eyes. 


The  Comedienne  497 

She  stopped,  without  knowing  why,  before 
the  marble  figure  of  the  dancing  Faun.  The 
rains  had  darkened  his  stony  body  and  rusted 
the  locks  of  his  hair  that  curled  like  hyacinths, 
and  his  face,  furrowed  by  streams  of  water, 
seemed  to  have  grown  longer  since  the  spring, 
but  in  his  eyes  there  gleamed  and  burned 
that  same  mockery  and  his  crooked  legs  con- 
tinued their  mad  dance.  "lo!  lo!  lo!"  he 
seemed  to  sing,  shaking  his  flute,  laughing  and 
jeering  at  everything,  and  raising  boldly  to  the 
sun  his  head  which  was  crowned  as  though 
with  a  bacchantic  wreath  by  the  withered 
leaves  that  had  fallen  on  it. 

Janina  gazed  at  him,  but  being  unable 
to  remember  or  understand  anything,  she 
passed  on. 

On  Nowy  Swiat,  in  one  of  the  chambres 
garnies,  she  asked  for  a  room,  ink,  letter- 
paper,  and  envelopes.  When  everything  had 
been  supplied,  Janina  locked  herself  up  in  the 
room  and  wrote  two  letters:  one  brief,  dry,  and 
painfully  ironical  letter  to  her  father  and  an- 
other longer  and  entirely  calm  one  to  Glogowski. 
She  notified  them  both  of  her  suicide.  She  ad- 
dressed the  letters  with  the  greatest  accuracy 

and  laid  them  in  a  conspicuous  place. 

32 


498  The  Comedienne 

Afterwards  Janina  calmly  took  from  her 
pocket  the  bottle  with  the  poison,  uncorked  it, 
held  the  liquid  up  to  the  light  and  then,  with- 
out thinking  or  hesitating  any  longer — drank 
it  to  the  very  dregs. 

Suddenly,  she  stretched  out  her  arms,  a 
gleam  of  terror  shot  across  her  face,  her  eyes 
closed,  as  though  blinded  by  some  measureless 
void  that  opened  before,  and  she  fell  prone 
upon  the  floor,  in  dreadful  convulsions  of  pain. 

A  few  days  later,  Kotlicki,  having  returned 
from  Lublin  where  he  had  installed  Topolski's 
company,  was  sitting  in  a  coffee-house,  looking 
over  the  newspapers,  and  by  some  strange 
chance  his  eye  fell  upon  the  following  item 
among  the  local  accidents  of  the  day: 

"THE  SUICIDE  OF  AN  ACTRESS 

"On  Tuesday,  in  the  chambres  garnies  on 
Nowy  Swiat,  the  servants  were  aroused  by 
moans  issuing  from  one  of  the  rooms  which 
an  hour  ago  had  been  engaged  by  an  unknown 
woman.  They  broke  open  the  door  and  a 
dreadful  sight  met  their  eyes.  Upon  the 
floor  lay  writhing  in  pain  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful woman.  Two  letters  left  behind  by  her 


The  Comedienne  499 

revealed  that  she  was  a  certain  Janina  Orlow- 
ska,  a  former  chorus  girl  who  appeared  last 
season  in  the  N.  N.  Theater  under  Cabinski's 
management. 

"A  physician  was  called  and  the  uncon- 
scious woman  was  taken  to  the  Hospital  of 
the  Infant  Jesus.  Her  condition  is  serious 
but  it  still  holds  forth  some  hope.  Miss 
Orlowska  poisoned  herself  with  essence  of  vine- 
gar, as  is  attested  by  the  bottle  that  was  found 
in  her  room.  The  cause  of  her  desperate  act 
is  unknown,  but  an  investigation  is  being 
made.  ..." 

Kotlicki  read  this  over  several  times,  knitted 
his  brows,  tugged  at  his  mustache,  read  it 
again  and,  finally,  crumpled  up  The  Courier 
and  threw  it  in  anger  upon  the  floor. 

' '  A  comedienne !  A  comedienne ! "  he  whis- 
pered scornfully,  biting  his  lips. 

THE  END 


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